“Have you ever…”

“Have you ever…”

“… been shot in a dream?” they asked.  As of this morning I can say clearly, I have.  And it wasn’t pleasant.  But at least I got that bastard that did it.  I suppose that counts for something.

In dreams we don’t usually question what is going on.  We just follow along.  It’s not until we wake that we try and make sense of it all before the images fade away.  Often, we never succeed.

I don’t know what we were doing in that house, not really.  And I’m sure I have no idea why it was occupied with East German thugs.  That’s not something that seems to have any relevance to any of my recent experiences.  But that is where we were, and we were planning to leave.

The troubling thing about a tactile poison is that it enters through the skin.  You may not even notice it at first, as it’s not always wet.  It’s only when you start feeling the effects of it that you know, and by then it’s usually too late.  I had been packing to go, when I first noticed it.  Writing out my forwarding address, the numbers were shaky, and confused.  2… 0… 5… or is it 3… the 6 just won’t come.  I stopped half way through.  He was watching from the hallway, frowning.  I turned back to the page, brow furrowed as I tried to think.  I heard him moving in the other room, searching for something.  He came back to the hallway, gun in hand and that was when you confronted him.  Two others stood by, looming over you.  Your argument was unclear.  So much was unclear.  Letters for the city refused to form on the page.  I couldn’t think.  I stood and walked to the door of my room… and closed it, shielding myself from the argument outside.  I returned to the bed, and the half written paper and waited.  There was a muffled gunshot and a thud.  I looked to the door and it opened.

He stepped into the room, the other two behind him.  Beyond, on the floor, I could only see your legs.  He smiled thinly, but his eyes held only malice.  I sat there, unmoving as he stepped in front of me.  “You thought to leave us?” he said.  “You think you can just do that?”  His voice did not rise in anger.  If anything, he grew quieter, nearly whispering.  “Nobody leaves here.  Not ever.”

The gun rose, and in an act I knew was futile, I reached for it.  I had the barrel, had his hand, but he still held the trigger.  A shot rang out, and I felt the bullet enter my chest.  It was high and to the left, lodging in somewhere between my shoulder and my heart.  It burned.  Burned in a way that fire cannot, but I refused to let go.  We stayed locked together like that for a moment, and then the gun began to move.  I pushed, twisting, and slowly the gun turned back.  His face held a look of surprise and determination.  Shots fired again, two, three, four, five… at seven he stopped fighting and slumped to the ground.  The two thugs stood there dumbly, looking at me as I bled, catching my breath.

“Go… get me a phone.”  I dropped the gun.  “Get me a phone and get out of here.  I’m calling the police.”  They stepped out and a moment later one returned and tossed a phone on to the bed next to me.  I picked it up and began to dial.  That was the last I saw of them.  The last I saw of any of it.

That was when I woke up this morning.  I looked at the clock.  It was only 2:30am.


One Response

  1. Well, it was certainly nice of them to get you the phone.

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