It’s March 23rd when I have a dream. It is frightening but at the same time peaceful and everything I wish I could be brave enough to face.
The dream is hollow, like most are, but has a feel of reality to trick you and reel you in without your knowledge. Somewhere in the back of your mind, though, you know what is happening and you wish that you could get up and not finish the nightmare.
In this dream I am in my kitchen, I am the age of twenty or so, and somehow everyone in my home has died. Buried years prior; I do not remember the events, I just know that they have happened. Dreams give you knowledge of lies when you can’t see the truth.
The kitchen is dark, quiet, suffocating. I am wallowing in my own miserable loneliness, cooking a meal that I won’t finish. I hear something, and for whatever reason I react in panic; I know something is going to happen. I get a sense that I have been warned of this event by someone on the phone. This memory comes out of no where and I run to my door, my English-Springer Spaniel barking wildly, but doing nothing else.
I rush, trying to lock the door, but it only results in failure as the door is shoved violently open and I am pushed back into the wall, onto the ground—beside the fire place. I fill with dread and the intruder who barged in is a man. He is faceless, but I know who he is. He pulls out a gun, puts it to the side of my head and whispers something about love or lack of and I feel nothing, but I hear a bang, and I hit the ground.
I watch his feet as he walks out, and I watch as my blood pools around me. Eugene, the spaniel, lays next to me, whimpering but offering no help, and I want to reassure him, but I can not speak. I feel like I’m fading but not quite. I touch the wound on my head and let myself fall back into place.
I am dead.
