Friday, November 23, 2012

A fear in the night

     Last night, I had a dream, or a nightmare I should say. It made no sense that this dream would come after a day celebrated with my family. First, Thanksgiving dinner with the extended family and then when we arrived at home, our own tradition of decorating the tree to Nat King Cole's Christmas album.  The tree was lit, cartoons were playing, children on a palate on the floor by the tree; I felt very warm and full to brimming with warm fuzzies as my eyes sagged shut on the couch.

     I was in a car with my parents. It must have been a convertible because of the lack of a barrier between us and the sky. I remember there was music playing and both parents looked happy. I looked up and began pointing out chemtrails to my parents. My father rolls his eyes. I then look up to the left and I see what looks to be a giant pesticide gun being ridden by a person with huge gusts of white chemicals flooding out of the back of it. I get my parents attention. "Look at that!" I say, "What is that?!" My Dad slows the car.

     All of the sudden, there is a military person riding a smaller pesticide gun and she has a large gun-type contraption in her arms and is shooting around us. She's not shooting directly at us but is maneuvering her gun to make sure she gets the floor boards of the car around my father's feet. I yell, "What are you doing?" She doesn't answer. I yell again, "What are you doing?" She is so close that I reach up and grab her wrist. I pull her down. It seems like all fight goes out of her and the pesticide bike or whatever it was, floats off without her and she is in the back seat with me. She begins to tell us a story about how she is just returned from Afghanistan and before she is even able to visit her family, the government has set her to work against the people of her home. She is charged to shoot surveillance devices on all surfaces. What had appeared to be a cloud was really microscopic surveillance devices so the government could watch our every move to incarcerate and hold indefinitely, those who would question the changes that were soon to come.

     Without realizing how we arrived there, we are now at a military installment, surrounded by other, very tired looking military personnel.  I get a good look at her. She stands in front of me, older and worn, blond wavy hair hanging around a face lined with worry and sights no human should've had to endure. She is taking her gloves off and I begin to ask her, "So if they are watching us at this close a level..." She interrupts me and states flatly, "Yeah, it's over." I take something she had in her hand. It was a very sturdy flashlight with some sort of a drawstring protective covering around the base. I looked at her and said, "Well I will take this. If I have this, the people will listen to me." She smiles, doesn't try to take it away, and turns to leave.

     I was left standing and thinking about my son. I look around. I don't know how I know but I know another military installation has my son in so-called safe keeping. I immediately go over in my head if there was anything I said that would have been damning to my ability to take my son. I strengthen my resolve and I leave the building. I felt triumphant as I gripped the flashlight, knowing I would wake people up, alert them to the coming danger.

     Then I opened my eyes. I was on my couch, the lights from the Christmas tree at the edge of my vision. All at once I was relieved to know my son was upstairs and heartbroken I had lost the flashlight. The house was very quiet. It is also old and there is never a moment where sounds are still in this big, old house. I listen. My heart was still hammering from the intensity of the dream. I thought I heard... What was that? Walking upstairs? No one is upstairs but my son. It sounds closer. I strain to listen and I dare not move a muscle. I feel the irrational fear that if there is someone in the room with us, that the girls asleep on the floor by the tree to my right, continue to live with my continued stillness. I wonder about how those in other, occupied countries feel when they hear sounds in the night of coming death and no way to escape it.  My mind forms the soft fall of boots on the floor and I think in horror.... Is it too late?

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