My Past Life, as an Assassin

This is another long one, but it was very action-filled and exciting. I WAS someone else in this dream, and felt everything this person went through, I felt as if I knew their entire past and every thought they had seemed completely natural to me. It was almost as if I was remembering a past life somehow.

In the dream, I was an assassin. As a matter of fact, the only way my mind wants to portray "an assassin" is dressed as the main character from the popular video game, Assassin's Creed. So, I was in all white robes with weapons strapped all over me. And a hidden blade at my wrist.

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I was on a mission, which had no emotional effect on me whatsoever anymore, after all the murders I had committed for the greater good. It was just a job. But it was about to get personal.

The target was a high ranking member of the church who also held a respectable position for the state. He was a well-liked man, as far as I knew, but then again I never paid much attention to those things. High ranking officials (no matter how caring they seem) always end up in a body bag, their blood spilled by my blade. One person can not hold a position of power for too long, you see. They become corrupted.

I was in line waiting to have his blessing one Sunday. The churchgoers always lined up to have him kiss their forehead and recite a prayer for them. I was wearing my assassin outfit, so I'm not sure how they actually saw me, but the heavy crossbow on my back and sword at my side had to have made a few people blink, to say the least. No one seemed to notice though, so when I reached the High Priest (or Senator, however he preferred to be called) it seemed almost too easy. He would lean down, I would seem to put my hands on his chest when I was actually triggering the mechanism that holds my hidden blade to my wrist, and it would shoot forward, piercing his heart. My mind had already planned my escape route while waiting in line, so I began considering the angles my feet would be positioned in so that once the weight of his body fell on top of me, I could find my footing quickly and be out of sight before any guards could reach the scene.

When my turn was up, I took a step forward. The High Priest was the only person in front of me. He put his hands on my shoulders, arms stretched out, and smiled. "Ah, I know of you!" he said. I was intrigued. I tilted my head to the side questioningly, and he drew forward and leaned near me. Curiosity got the better of me. I would still my blade until he explained himself, but no longer. He gently kissed my forehead, and I was starting to get annoyed. I considered not even waiting for a response and just assuming it was a church thing. After all, how could anyone know me? I was a shadow. A trick of the wind. He now put his face beside mine and whispered in my ear, "I knew your parents... and your sister is still alive, you know. At least, she will be for a few more minutes. My men are knocking on her door as we speak."

My emotions, nonexistent for years, suddenly rushed forth with incredible rage. I released my blade and tore through his chest, all subtlety forgotten. Blood was streaming through the air like ribbons, celebrating freedom from his icy veins. As it splashed across my face, reality rushed back. I had a moment of panic, then focused clarity. It took only a second for my vision to target in on my escape route, each section of the path being shown to me as if my vision was zoomed in. I took a single deep breath, let it out, then began.

I casually shoved his body aside, allowing it to fall onto the person waiting in line behind me. As citizens started screaming, I started running.

This was always my favorite part of my job. Not the carefully plotted out murders and intricate details of who and how; not the idea of knowing that I walk freely among my targets-- and are even welcomed by them into their atmosphere-- just hours before their untimely demises. No, my favorite part is the escape. Because no matter how perfectly you execute your target, your mission is not complete until the moment you are truly free. When a guard will run right by you, even glance at you, and keep going. The thrill of the chase, of BEING chased, and waking up alive and refreshed the next morning. You see, at any moment during that chase, if you are caught, you are dead. Those guards are not ordered to "capture" you alive. They are ordered to kill on sight. Anyone caught still alive is just an extra bonus for the guard, a few more silver in his paycheck, and the following Friday morning the town has the pleasure of watching your tortured, raped body hang from the gallows. In rare cases, even beheaded. So when you wake up the next morning, free, the sky is a brighter blue. The grass a vibrant green. Even on rainy days, each drop of rain is like an angel's tear, its healing powers washing your soul. The laughter of the townsfolk permeates the air and the smell of the baker's shop hints of how wonderful every bite of that loaf will taste with breakfast. I could go on all day, describing the sweet taste of freedom. But I would rather not, because as it happens this story does not end quite so wonderfully. Not anytime soon, at least.

My vision zoomed out, and I felt as if I was watching myself move. I saw myself rush down an alley, dodging merchants and shoppers and ducking under a camel. I saw myself turn down one street, then another, with no visible patterns. I saw myself run towards a wall, leap at it, and scale it. I grasped the top of the building and kicked off the wall, launching myself at the building beside it. In midair I glanced downward and saw the guards running through the alley towards me. I landed on the outer railing of a balcony and swung myself over and slipped into the apartment. I moved quickly and silently. If anyone was home, they never knew I had been there. I went out their front door into a wide hallway, with open windows at either end. One tenant was carrying her laundry back into her apartment, and dropped her basket when she saw me, then started weeping as she struggled with her door handle while glancing at me every other second. I don't understand why people fear me when they see me... if I wanted them dead, they would never have had a chance. Then again, it was probably the High Priest's blood dripping down my chin that scared her. I ran down the hallway in the other direction, hearing her sobs turn to those of relief rather than panic. I paused at the window, glancing down the streets from behind the curtain, then saw my chance and stepped out onto the window sill.

I turned around and faced the building, then jumped straight up and grabbed ahold of the window on the floor above me, pulled myself up onto it, and repeated it again with the final window of the building. My next jump after that was to the roof, and as I pulled myself up I heard the familiar  sound of a blade being gently released from it's sheath. I stood only to find that a guard had been waiting for me. His blade was now aimed for my chest, a smug grin on his face. From the look of his tattered uniform I assumed he would attempt to capture me alive, clearly in need of any small amount of extra coin he could gather. I used this to my advantage. He may have thought to corner me unsuspecting on a rooftop, but he chose the wrong rooftop to do so. I held my hands out in front of me, and slowly began inching my way around the rooftop to the other side. My back never turned to the guard, and his blade was always just inches from my chest. He shouted at me to stand still or "face his wrath" (which I found laughable, even in the current situation). I paused for a moment, let him relax slightly, then continued our dance until I had my back to the far edge of the roof. I slowly backed up until my heels were on the very edge, then acted as if I was afraid to fall and glanced behind me down the side of the building. Certain I was positioned well, I regained full composure and stood up straight. I smiled at the guard, and tossed him a small bag of gold coins from my pocket, telling him to say hi to his wife from me. Winking, I took a step back and disappeared. The guard rushed to the edge of the building and glanced down, seeing a huge haystack beside a small stable with 3 camels and a horse chewing lazily. He stood on that rooftop for what must have been nearly an hour, staring blankly at that haystack. I could just imagine him glancing at the bag of gold in amazement, then back at the haystack in wonder. He could watch that haystack all day and never see me come out of it... because I was already long gone.

I can not reveal to you the secrets of my escape, but you have to admit it was quite impressive.

It began raining later that evening as I walked down an empty street toward what seemed to be an abandoned warehouse. There was a loft apartment inside where I had grown up. My parents owned their own business, though it wasn't until years after their death, when I began learning the art of assassination, that I discovered my parents ran an underground safe house for people just like me, helping the greater good, with a textile mill as a cover. Knowing that made me work even harder to become the best at what I do. Three other people I trained with have already been beheaded, and at their own faults. If they would have just set their pride aside and took note of their mistakes and weaknesses and learned from them... But, I digress.

I had a sister. She was a few years younger than me, and my parents' pride and joy. She was amazingly responsible at her age, and was trusted with everything, and was even supposed to take over the business one day. Until my family was in a car crash, and at 12 years old I was the sole survivor... or so I thought. I had done some asking around in the neighborhood and discovered that a young woman had taken up residence in the warehouse loft many years ago, and hardly ever came out except to purchase massive amounts of groceries. It was believed that she was a hermit, and that she bought so many groceries at a time so that she could hole herself away for many months without having to come out. But I knew better. My parents must have told her their secret before the crash... but why had she not found me? Why had my teachers never told me that she had survived?

I had no need to pick the lock on the door, because it was already slightly ajar. I crept inside and was hit with a wave of emotion. I began having flashbacks of my sister and I chasing each other around the mill while cloth was being woven and dyed. I saw my mother setting the table for dinner one night, proud of the expensive meal she was able to prepare to celebrate my father's new business arrangements selling his goods. I had so many wonderful memories... why had I never remembered them till now? I held back tears... assassins do not cry. Tears in your eyes only obstruct your view and can mean the difference between life or death at any second. I took a deep breath and made my way to the loft.

The loft consisted of three rooms. A kitchen/living area, a bathroom, and a bedroom. The kitchen was destroyed. The cabinets had been torn apart, dishes shattered on the floor, the couch cushions ripped apart and the table on it's side. I readied my blade, then moved to the bedroom. It wasn't much better... the bed had blood spattered on it, a knife was sticking out of the wall, it's point buried in the wood. There was a bracelet on the floor, made from lettered beads that spelled my sisters name. She had been here... but where was the body? I went into the bathroom and found bloodstained rags and the remains of some bandaging... someone left here, wounded. I ran a finger around the sink bowl and it was still wet. The High Priest was telling the truth; this took place only a few hours earlier. When I glanced up into the mirror on the wall, I had half a second to notice the man standing behind me, a club in his raised hand. Before I could react, he brought it down swiftly and with a sharp burst of pain, I blacked out.

I awoke to find myself sprawled in the back of a large military van. I don't know how long it had been since I was knocked out. There were three men in the van, all in camouflage with large guns. One of them was driving, and we were speeding down a long highway. When the other two saw that I was awake, they rushed to my side to help me up, apologizing for having to knock me out. They began telling me about how there was an older man who was known to work for the High Priest, and he had been seen leaving the warehouse not an hour earlier with a bandage around his left shoulder and a large bundle in his arms. He had clearly been sent to kill my sister, who was a known ally to the underground rogue association, and it appears that he was successful. She had been targeted for discovering important details of a government plan that the High Priest was carrying out in an attempt to take complete control of the country as well as flushing out the association and murdering every member and their families. It's assumed that after years of working with assassins, she had gained enough knowledge to work her way into the High Priest's office and get the information she needed, however she was spotted leaving the office. She was able to report part of the plan, including expected meetings and the creation of something terrifying, but she turned up missing before she could attend the gathering at which she was to reveal exact details. The entire underground was in danger, and anyone in town they had any connection to. And without my sister, all would be lost and hundreds would die. Even with the High Priest dead, the plans had already been set into motion.

I discovered that these men were not military, but under cover. There was a vehicle behind us, driving backwards and still managing to keep up with our speed. It was a flatbed truck, with a large gun mounted in the center and aimed directly at us. There were three men in the back of the truck struggling over control of the gun. The man in the center was the older man that had killed my sister.

I had learned so much so fast that my mind could not handle it; my emotions could not be controlled. In a moment of anger I grabbed one of the guns from the men and shot at the old man. Guns were a new idea to me, but the rest of my weapons had been removed from me "for my own safety" but the gun seemed to be an easy enough concept to grasp. Aim the barrel and pull the trigger. Much like my crossbow, really. But with multiple shots available back to back, and reloading being as simple as changing a clip. I would definitely have to get me one of these. I managed to hit the old man's stomach, and saw him double over. The other men grabbed the gun with relief, and started to tie up the old man. Before they could, he smiled and shot a needle out of his mouth into the neck of one man, then in one fluid motion removed the needle and stabbed the other man in the leg. It was a very familiar tactic which I had used myself on occasion, and I was amazed to see the old man use it. The needle is stored on the roof of your mouth, with the tip set into a small hole drilled into the back of a tooth and filled in with a rubber cork. The tip of the needle is coated in a paralyzing poison, which takes effect after 5 seconds of entering the blood stream. The rubber cork acts as a waterproof barrier that keeps the assassin's saliva from dissolving it into their own body. It was very impressive technology, but what I didn't understand is how the old man came to know of it. It was only taught to the best of the best in the underground, and you had to work hard and defeat many challenges to achieve a high enough status to be taught such secrets.

It occurred to me then that the old man was once an assassin himself. I watched him lean over one of the bodies of the paralyzed men, whispering to him for several minutes, then he straightened himself up, pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, and dialed. All I could do was watch. After a few words, he shut the phone, returned it to his pocket, and hobbled over to the gun. The bleeding from his stomach had slowed. He didn't have much blood left in his body; he would die soon. I positioned myself against the van's interior wall, so that when he started shooting at us, I would be less of a target. My mind was working for an escape route, for a plan, but my head was pounding from being knocked out as well as from all the new knowledge I had learned. The old man pulled a lever on the gun and surprisingly the gun appeared to crack in two, both sides falling to the truck bed to reveal a giant crossbow with a bright green cartridge in place of the arrow. He aimed carefully into the back of the truck, and with his last breath, pulled the trigger. As he collapsed, the green cartridge flew out of the crossbow and was aimed directly into the center of van. While in mid air, almost in slow motion, the cartridge seemed to morph. It grew larger and changed into the shape of a person, and by the time it landed in the van it was a woman, a few years younger than me, with very short dark brown hair, wearing her nightgown. It was my sister!

The driver threw on his brakes and the vehicle skidded to a stop. The men jumped out of the van and into the back of the truck, which by this time had stopped a few feet behind us, to keep from crashing into us, the driving already out of the truck and running away. They grabbed the paralyzed men and we took off again, driving into the night.

We pulled into a small diner off the side of the road just as the sun began to rise. My sister and I were enjoying each other's company and catching up on old times. She was not the least bit surprised to learn of my training, and I was proud to see that she had continued in our parents' footsteps. The paralysis had worn off the men by now, and they seemed to have important information to give us, but they said that it should be given to us in a relaxed setting, preferably over breakfast (the poison leaves you starving-- every assassin who carried the needle was required to have it used on them before they were permitted to carry it, so I knew firsthand how they felt).

We sat down and ordered our breakfast. After everyone had a plate of pancakes and fresh fruit in front of them, one of the men passed a folder letter across the table to us, and waited for us to read it before telling us what took place in the back of the truck, and what the old man had said.

The old man had been my father's best friend as a child. When they came of age, and it was time to make life-changing decisions, the old man had joined the rogue association without question. My father, however, hesitated. He had fallen in love with my mother, and they wanted children. Assassins were not forbidden from having families, but it seemed a very unwise decision and so very few ever reproduced or even married. My father instead decided to aid the association, and started his textile mill as a cover, making large purchases and funding his underground safe house all while using the excuse of "business purchases." The old man was the top of his class, and one of the most notable assassins to have gone through our training. He used to visit my father all the time, even held my sister and me when we were babies. But the old man had been too great at his job, and was given a secret mission which he never returned from. The association honored him with a monument and told us all that he had completed his last mission successfully, and we could only hope to be as great as he was.

It turns out, his mission was still being carried out. He was placed in the High Priest's council as a spy, and had been passing along what information he could to the association. He knew the remainder of his life was to be served honoring the High Priest, and although he did not agree with it he knew it was for the best. He had secretly been watching over my sister and me, and was very proud of us for everything we had accomplished. He had even attended a special ceremony in my honor when I was raised First Assassin (though of course, he kept himself out of sight). He had protected us through the years, without our knowing. Sending guards to the opposite sides of town when he knew where we were, things like that. The High Priest had not yet inducted the old man into his trusted inner circle, however, because he knew that the old man had been so close to my father, and the High Priest had had suspicions about my family for quite some time before the crash. Since he was kept out of that inner circle, the old man had no access to the most secret information, such as that which my sister had discovered. It was the old man himself who saw her sneaking out of the High Priest's office, and he knew then and there that he would give his life to save ours.

He knew that the High Priest left certain trace elements in his office so that he could tell when things had been disturbed. Such as a hair across the drawer of the desk, and balancing a pencil at such a precarious angle that should someone open a drawer or cabinet, the pencil would shake and change positions. There were many other secret traps laid throughout the office, and no one but the High Priest knew them all. The old man knew that if the High Priest discovered someone had been sifting through his office, he would manage to track down who else had been in the building that day, and it would eventually pinpoint straight to my sister.

The old man devised a clever plan. First, he told the High Priest that he had noticed my sister leaving his office. The High Priest liked keeping things between as few people as possible, so it was expected when the High Priest ordered the old man to find her and dispose of her quietly. The old man then contacted the association and told them that the time had come to finally take out the High Priest; that there would be no better time. No one else in the government knew that the secret information had been leaked, and with the High Priest dead there would be no one to alert the government of the association's retaliation. The old man knew I would be given the honor of the kill, and that the High Priest would be sure to recognize me after being told days before about my sister. He knew the High Priest would want to brag, and that I would come looking.

When he had gone to see my sister, he had no intentions of killing her. Instead, he snuck up on her in the loft and used a sleeping powder on her, knocking her out for several hours. While she was out, he destroyed the loft and made it appear as if a great struggle had taken place, even slashing his shoulder with her knife and allowing his blood to pour out onto her bed and floor, to make it seem as if he had raped and then slaughtered her. He cleaned the knife and threw it into the wall so it would look as if she attempted to fight back, then he bandaged himself up, bundled her in his jacket, and carried her out to his truck a few blocks away.

He took her to a woman he had met while traveling before his mission to the High Priest. A woman who was skilled in magics and the unknown. She transformed my sister in the green cartridge, the spell only to be broken when in contact with someone of the same bloodline. He readied it in his gun in his truck and waited outside the warehouse for me to arrive. He knew the association would be following me, and he knew they would take me as far from that building as possible. Keeping me from my past was the first step in ensuring that I would be the best assassin-- no emotional reminders of my past, no deep connections to other living people-- such things were ingredients in a recipe for failure and death. It was why the association had never told me of my sister surviving the crash. When he watched the van driving away, he ordered a friend of his to take the wheel and catch up to us. He had planned on being close enough to shoot the cartridge with the letter explaining everything into the van and then take off, but the men in the van had noticed him coming up too quickly and recognized him from the High Priest's council. Two of the men quickly jumped from the van to the truck and began to fight the old man. The old man ordered the driver to flip the vehicle around so the van would be an easier target, and the driver not only did so but also managed to catch back up to the van while driving in reverse. The struggle continued, with the men now attempting to keep the old man from firing the weapon towards the van. At this point I had fired the shot into the old man's stomach, and the timer on his life began to tick. He would have killed himself anyways, had I not shot at him, and this way actually fit into his plan much better. He paralyzed the men, then put the note into the front pocket of the man that he leaned over.

As he leaned over the man, he told him that it would all be alright; that the poison would wear off in a few hours, and that many lives had been spared that day, even if it wasn't obvious just yet. He told him that when he was able to move again, he was to give the letter to me and my sister and tell them exactly what he did next.

He then stood up, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed. The paralyzed men both confirmed that he said, "I have discovered a pair of assassins attempting to escape after the murder of the High Priest this morning. I have killed them both, and their bodies are now floating downriver away from town. I have heard the crocodiles bellowing, and I believe they have found a meal. I have taken a fatal wound from the battle however, and do not think I will be able to make it back alive. Should you find my body, bury me well."

It was then that he pulled the trigger, releasing the cartridge towards the van. The rest we know. My sister took on her true form once again as she grew closer to me, and by the time she hit the van the spell had worn off entirely. All she remembered was some man behind her in her loft, and suddenly hitting her head as she collided with the floor of the van.

A few weeks and hundreds of miles later, my sister and I were in a distant country. We heard news that the association had big plans in motion, after my sister had given them the rest of the information she had gathered, and that the council was already crumbling from within. We were now living on a beach, in our own small condo. It was one bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, and an old analog TV on a metal stand. It wasn't much, but it was ours, and with complete freedom. No one to kill, no looking over our shoulders, no one chasing us. We were thought to be dead, and the association kept our whereabouts hidden. Monuments were dedicated to our services, much like the old man had received, and the association was now telling new recruits that they should strive to be like us.

I had once thought the best part of my job was to escape, to find a reason to celebrate being alive. After being reunited with my sister, every morning I woke up with the sky a bright blue, and the grass a vibrant green. It turns out, I had never been looking for a reason to celebrate living... just something worth living for.

Are You Afraid of... Yourself?

This is one of the longest dreams I have had, and it is the longest that I have remembered fully upon waking. It was one of the more obviously meaningful dreams that I can remember, and it went on for what seemed like days. I can not begin to describe the range of emotion I felt while experiencing this dream or when I replayed it in my mind when I woke up. I went into as much detail as I could remember when I typed this, because I didn't want to forget it. So this is going to be long.

This one was intense, people. Brace yourselves.

It begins with me sitting in a back bedroom at my mom's house. I was looking through some old things of mine that she found (you know how it is when you pack things in a box, shove them in the top of a linen closet and forget about them). There was a television in the room, and I had been glancing up occasionally. One of my favorite channels growing up, Nickelodeon, was on at the time and they were showing just about every old show I used to watch as a kid. All my favorites. I hear my mother calling me from the kitchen. Dinner is ready. Just as I'm standing up to leave the room, the TV screen goes black and pauses there for a second-- the way it usually does just before a new show is about to start. I hang back to see what the show would be (just out of curiosity, even though I wouldn't stay to watch it) and I was amazed to hear the familiar opening to the show "Are You Afraid of the Dark?" begin to play. It was one of my most favorite shows (the entire show was based on a group of kids that sneak out after dark to tell scary stories). Had I watched this show today I think I would probably laugh at the things that frightened me back then, but since I haven't seen an episode of this show in over 7 years it all still seems pretty damn terrifying.

I was completely mesmerized. I heard myself squeal in delight, and I felt my body lean forward in anticipation... although my mind couldn't focus on anything but the screen. Dinner was all but forgotten-- I had to watch! I was being absorbed into the show, the image growing larger and larger in my view until it was all I could see. Soon I was IN the show. I was one of the kids, silently walking out behind a tree into a clearing where two young girls were laughing in front of a small campfire. They grew quiet as I approached, watching me with friendly yet curious eyes. One of the girls sat up a bit straighter and poised herself as if ready to begin. I sat down and looked up at her... and was shocked to see that she was ME! Both of the girls were different parts of who I was as a child. One of them was the straightforward, take-charge, independent-yet-social leader. The other was the shy, timid, easily-frightened follower. I looked down and saw that I was the same age in all three aspects of 'me'... roughly 7 to 8 years old. Somehow at that moment I knew that I was a third aspect of myself. I was seeing through the eyes of the inventive, creative, logical problem-solving me. The imaginative one.

The "leader" version of me began speaking. Apparently, the way this works is that whoever was in charge that night would lead the group (mentally) through their "story" as if they were living it. We would all experience whatever the main character experiences, whether good or bad. The stories don't have to be frightening, but what kid would be invited back to the campfire if your story was boring? She was laying out the grounds for her story, preparing to take us on a journey so horrifying that we were getting "warnings" before she even started. She said we would have to go through this one together, or we would never make it out alive. The "follower" version of me let out a sort of squeak, then moved closer to me, and we took each other's hands. I had the leader on my left, and the follower on my right. The leader told us to keep our eyes shut for this; just follow her and in our minds we'd see it all. But if you opened your eyes it would be too frightening and none of us would make it. As she began her story, we all stood up, hands clasped together tightly, and embraced it.

We were walking toward a large house. It was a nice day, a bit windy with a slight chill but otherwise comfortable. The house seemed to loom overhead; it was dark and foreboding... just where a group of kids would want to go, right? Looking at the path in front of us, a small creek was blocking our way. One of the versions of myself decided we could cross, just be quick about it and don't let go of each other! Keep your eyes closed, Crystal! DONT open your eyes, and whatever you do DONT think about anything but reaching the other side! I squeezed my eyes shut tight till it hurt, and just kept repeating to myself, "Just cross the creek, get to the other side. That's all. Just cross the creek..." We got through it fine, I didn't even feel the water hit me. No temperature difference, nothing. And should I have felt anything? It was just a story, wasn't it? We continued on our way. Soon we came to a small decline in our path, that went down about 4 feet then rose back up slowly on the other side, just before reaching the yard to the house. At the bottom of the decline another small path veered off to the left, where the hills surrounding it became cliffsides, and the path disappeared around the corner. I leaned forward slightly to glance down the path, wondering what was off that direction, when suddenly the other versions of myself pulled me back and started whispering fervently "NO Crystal! Don't think about it! Clear your mind... don't wonder what's down there! Don't wonder about anything! Clear your mind. You mustn't be imagining ANYTHING, Crystal. You might not mean to, but you're going to get us hurt. Just follow along, don't think!" When we started moving forward again I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter than when we had crossed the creek, and I held onto the hands of the other versions of myself so tightly I could feel pain shooting up my arms. We had just reached the bottom of the decline when I felt my head twist slightly to the left, towards the path, and for just a moment I did wonder what was around that corner...

Something must have happened, but it was a blur; a rushing swirl of colors and shapes and sounds. I'm not forgetting anything at this point, this is how the dream showed it to me. When the world finally slowed down once again, the three of us-- all three versions of me-- were sprawled out in a golden field beside a semi-busy highway, just on the other side of the guard railing. We were all a bit dazed, and started sitting up and brushing ourselves off, standing up and looking at our surroundings, trying to figure out just where we were. We were also older, maybe around 18-20 years old. The other versions of me were mad at me... it was all my fault that things had gone wrong.

You see, apparently (as they were telling me I began putting the pieces together) my imagination was too great. It was a gift; but oh, what a curse! I had the ability to make anything I imagined come to life. Even when a separate part of me was in charge, I was able to change HER story to reflect my own curiosities. That path wasn't there originally, she told me. I created it, however unknowingly. We hadn't been holding hands so we could feel safer together; they were holding MY hands so they could keep me under control. The story wasn't scary initially; it was pnly scary to them... because they had to bring ME! The realizations were hitting me so hard I fell back to the ground. I was the wildcard. I was the one they didn't want around. They loved me because they had no choice-- I was one of them, after all. And I had my good points. I was the one that got them out of trouble in a jiffy! But then again, it was beginning to look as if I was the one that always got them back into trouble, too. They liked me for what I could do for them, and that seemed like the extent of any good feelings aimed in my direction. Right then, I had a flashback to their "friendly" looks as I had approached the campfire, and I saw how fake those smiles were. My mind showed me a hushed conversation between the two of them before I had arrived, discussing exactly what the story would be and how to get there, because the two of them concentrating on it together was their only chance of possibly being stronger than me and making it through. They were afraid of me. Which is why they hated me so much, I think.

I stood back up and we began walking alongside the highway, toward a destination that the other 'me's hadn't filled me in on just yet. If they even knew. As we walked they were casually throwing out comments towards me that were meant to hurt me. Why they would do that knowing the "power" I possessed, I don't know. It's illogical, and yet my mind wasn't "creating" anything at the moment, so I guess they already knew it was safe to belittle me. No, at this point my mind wasn't in control. My emotions were taking over. I was hurt and feeling cornered, even in such a huge field. The sound of the cars when they rushed by was hitting me like a sonic blast with each passing, and I was beginning to get dizzy. I could feel the slow, steady tug of a headache coming on. The looks the other versions of me were shooting in my direction were hateful and disappointed. With each of their comments, I shot back with a defense, but I knew so little about what had happened that my excuses were weak and almost laughable. Well, laughable if I hadn't been about to cry. I was hurting myself, couldn't I see that? But the versions of me were so seperate in who they were that it never occured to either of them that these feelings would rebound upon them.

I was getting more and more dizzy by the second. I felt lost and wasn't sure if I was even going the right direction anymore. I had to hold onto the guard rail to keep myself upright, and the world started spinning. When I took my next step, I felt something move underneath my foot and I recoiled, knocking myself to the ground once more. I could have sworn I had nearly stepped on a snake. A very long, thick, golden brown snake. And dangerous. Highly venomous. The slightest scratch on one of it's fangs is all it would take for excruciating pain and inevitable death. I stood up once more, the other 'me's letting out exasperated sighs and shaking their heads. I watched them share a glance, a slight nod of understanding, and we continued on our way. I, of course, was very cautious now. After all, I wasn't sure if I had actually seen the snake. Every gust of wind played tricks on my eyes; I could see that snake out of the corner of my eye and when I looked-- he was gone. Every car that passed by I heard a hiss in my ear, and when I turned my head-- nothing was there. I thought I was going crazy, when I felt something thick and strong rub against my leg. I jumped and shouted, and this time both other versions of myself looked with concern (though not concern for me). They seemed uneasy, and the glance they shared this time was one of worry and fear.

They were watching me. We started walking faster now. I was genuinely scared for my life, and the other 'me's could see that. They knew something bad was about to happen; and it did. The snake suddenly appeared in front of me, and I halted so abruptly that I twisted and fell again. The other versions of me started shouting, telling me to get up, screaming at me to run. The snake was after me, and always just two steps behind. I was zigzagging through the gaps in the guard rail trying to buy time and lengthen the distance between my heels and it's deadly fangs. There was an abandoned vehicle just ahead, pulled off the side of the road. If we could only reach it...

The tail of the snake whipped in front of me. I tripped, falling against the guardrail and knocking my head against it before collapsing in the grass. I could hear the snake hissing, and I barely managed to roll to the side just as the snake lunged forward in a strike, digging it's fangs deep into the earth where my chest had been moments before. I was now on my back, scrambling away from the snake, unable to tear my eyes from the glinting of venom clinging to one of the fangs, slowly coalescing into a single drop. In what seemed like slow motion that single drop fell to the ground, exploding upon impact. It was almost as if every particle of dust and dirt that it touched burst into white flames and was erased from existence. The snake coiled back once more, it's eyes fixed on me with lethal accuracy, and it launched itself forward. Fear now had a name, and it was Death. I was about to experience it firsthand. There was nowhere to run and no place to hide. I braced myself--

And suddenly the snake was gone. It had been torn right out of the air, from within inches of my face, and thrown in front of a huge truck that was speeding by. For a split second my brain began making the connections and releasing the chemicals to feel joy and relief and happiness at being alive. But before the emotions even had time to form, a new horror spread out before my eyes. The truck that hit the snake had swerved into the oncoming lane, and my ears filled with the sound of screeching brakes and honking horns, and metal colliding with metal at high speeds with incredible force. I grasped the guardrail for support, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from vehicle after vehicle that couldn't stop in time, slamming together, trying to avoid the crash and only making it worse. I couldn't see every driver or passenger, but I could see enough. Men. Women. Children. Dying. Dead. I don't know how long I stood there, or when I had even stood up, but soon firefighters were putting out small fires between a few vehicles, and a police officer was wrapping a blanket around me, then putting his arms around my shoulders and telling me it would all be alright. I was safe now.

My view shifted, and I was now looking down at myself. I could see tears streaming down my face, the concerned officer attempting to bring me out of the state of shock that I appeared to be in, and the huge mess of twisted metal and body bags that lie before me. It went on for miles in either direction, taking lives and breaking hearts. How could the officer seem so relieved that I had lived, when my very existence had caused such trauma? How could he look at me with such loving, caring eyes when it was my fault that all these people were dead? It didn't seem worth it to me. I could have died-- no, I SHOULD have died-- that day. No one else should have died; if it would have just been me, they all would have lived. I tried to think back to figure out just what it was that had pulled that snake away from me, but I came up with nothing. I honestly didn't know, and I had a feeling I would never know. But it didn't matter. It was still my fault.

The other versions of myself were no longer present. At least, not individually. They had become a part of me again, as they should have. And I became a part of them. I was one entity, and I knew that this is what it had taken to bring myself back together. It was a delicate balance, and I would have to learn to control it; I would need to be a strong leader, cautious, but creative. Social, but independent. Imaginative, but realistic. If only I could stop hating myself.

And then the dream shifts.

Fast forward to a few years from today, in the future. I'm about 28 now, and my kids are around 6. My husband and I are having a small get-together with the neighbors. It seems to be a normal thing, maybe a weekly thing. We are hosting this time, and we are gathered together in what I can only assume is my dining room and kitchen, although it looks nothing like what I actually have. The kids are in their bedroom playing with their friends, and it's just us adults, chatting while waiting on food. The topic at hand is about finding common ground with your children and introducing activities that you could do together that are mentally stimulating while still being fun for all ages.

I'm only half-listening to one of the women as she is explaining her opinion (attempting to force us into agreeing that the best choice is reading books aloud in a circle, namely the Bible, and burning the television set). My husband is on the couch, engaged in a debate with one of the other husbands over the worth of some football quarterback. I'm making my way around the kitchen, wiping down the counter tops. One of the men took over with his views on the subject. (I'm actually not sure if he was married or had kids at all; he seemed more of a casual businessman, like a public relations rep or a promoter of some kind. He looked just like Jason Bateman.) His views were much more like my own: what works for some may not work for others, and not everyone is in an "overly-religious Jesus-statues-everywhere technology-is-the-work-of-the-devil" kind of family, so you find what works for your family-- maybe take turns trying out things that other family members like to do, and you make it more about having fun and working together than about learning-- although if you can manage some learning in there, good for you.

I was just finishing up the counter when I see an old breakfast biscuit stuck under an overhanging portion of the counter in the corner of the room. It was in a spot where there were two counter tops next to each other, one just slightly above the other, enough to leave a small gap about two inches tall and three inches wide. As I get closer I see that it's stale and has bits of pale green, dusty mold covering it. I say a few words of agreement towards the businessmen so he knows I'm listening, then cautiously pull the biscuit out of the space and throw it away, only to look back and see that it had been hollowed out and the spot on the counter where it had been is now a swarm of maggots crawling through mold and stale biscuit crumbs. I am completely disgusted by this, yet no one else seems to even notice. I kill the maggots and scrub the spot clean, spray it with disinfectant, and stare at it for a moment, as if expecting more to appear, but they are gone now.

The conversation is still going, this time another mother mentioning how "it seems like it must be pretty hard to pay attention to what your children like at all if you're glued to a screen playing some game all day." By this time the husbands have joined us in the kitchen for dinner, and my husband looks at me with an expression that asks if I want to be the one to respond to the woman's comment. My husband reaches into the refrigerator and begins pulling things out, while I turn to the woman and offer my views on her opinion. I basically explain to her how being a gamer yourself IS common ground between you and your child, because you can use gaming situations to begin conversations about more important issues. You can sit down together and play a game, you can experience family bonding through multiplayer... not that you need to play games all the time, but it's definitely an option.

As I'm talking my husband starts handing out Lunchables to everyone. As odd at I think this is at first, our guests all seem excited, and we settle around the dining room table eating them as if it is a full, home-cooked meal. Conversation turns to lighter topics, and we spend the evening talking and laughing in the company of our neighbors and friends.



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Parts of this do seem self-explanatory, in terms of the separate versions of myself, though I think analysis of a dream this intense will have to be done in a separate post at a later date. Feel free to comment and leave me your feedback as to what you think. I'm interested in hearing some responses.