Living someone elses’s life.
Every time I click that New Post button and this page appears, I can’t ignore the fact that my heart thumps faster than it should be. I guess it’s because I have no idea what to write, but if I don’t it’s like I’m abandoning this blog and ~let you guys down~, or I’m afraid that I’m going to post something sucky.
Well, what the hell.
So yeah, I guess that part II of YLSS is gonna have to wait. Aside from the lack of willingness to write about that subject from the source, I’ve sorta forgotten what I did most of the time there. But it was swell, really swell.
By the way, that’s not what I’m here for. I ain’t gonna tell ya about Australia this afternoon, or what I did there, or if I punched a roo in the face, which I didn’t.
It was this dream I had last night. It was, well… just a dream, but in my whole life I had never dreamed of someone else. Y aknow when you dream and the main character’s always you? Maybe some of you have experienced this before, but this is my first time, and it was… well, sorta cool. It’s like living someone else’s life, but in my dream this character I was in wasn’t leading a good one.
I was a boy. A little one, not a teen one, probably 8 or 7 years of age. From what I recall, and I don’t really recall much, he had a greasy black hair, short and a little bit curly. He had sad eyes, and was walking down a street in this desolated town near a dock when something bad happened.
So it was like reliving this kid’s nightmare of a past. First scene I saw was his mother dying after giving birth to him. In the delivery room they had this machine to help mothers give birth easier. The birth went down okay, but then some cables got screwed up and this machine went kabonga, and the mother, still attached to the machine, got electrocuted. The baby had already been taken down to the nursery room or whatever it is you call that room where they keep new born babies in. Then the dad came, and the nurse told him that some freak accident had occured, and the mother is dying. The dad grasped his hair in desperation, and forced to go into the delivery room, but it was too late. The mom died. So he took the baby home with him, and raised him until he grew u to be the boy I was in.
So they were walking down this street, when suddenly 3 men appeared outta nowhere behind them. I, or the boy, and my dad turned our heads, and suddenly he grabbed and started running down the street, the 3 men chasing us from behind on some sort of hoverscooter. We went pass a DVD rental store and a computer repair shop with Japanese posters peeling off on the glass door. He took me to a subway station, and opened this door that lead to the other side of the town. A ghetto, it seemed. There were brick apartments with broken windows and patched up cloth for curtains. He released my hand, kissed me on the forehead, and told me to enter a door, but I didn’t. He then ran outta the ghetto, where I slowly followed him and saw him getting into a Jeep and drove as fast as he could. I have no idea how, but somehow I caught up to him and saw him and his car facing the three men. I hid behind a trampled off oil drum, rusted and covered with random graffiti. As I peeped behind it, I realized I was crying. Well, maybe not me, it was the boy, but I actually felt tears racing down my cheeks. My dad was standing tall, already out of his car, facing the three men in suits. The leader, the one who was still on his hoverscooter, was wearing shades. He expelted a laugh and grinned, and then all of a sudden a yellow light blasted through the air, hurting my eyes. It was silent as a graveyard, but I could tell that they had blown off my dad and his car. I crouched behind the drum, feeling slightly hot, shivering.
You have no idea how this scene hurt the boy. I could feel it, as if I was both the boy and the narator, as if I was really there, a part of the whole story. He had no mom, his dad had been the only epicenter of his life, and now he had lost that too. In my dream the boy hadn’t spent that long with his dad, but he loved him so much, and he looked up to him. The bomb melted those moments away, sending them off like dust. He was in a state of both shock and pain.
After several moments, I lifted my head up, and saw fire hurdling around where my dad stood earlier and his car. I just stared, dumbfounded. You don’t see that kind of thing everyday, but once you do, and you know you can do nothing about it, you freeze. Just freeze. Those hour hands in your watch don’t move anymore. They’re just like you. They freeze.
From amidst the fire, 3 figures began to take shape. The men. The ones who had killed my dad. Rage began to take over, but in the same time I knew I couldn’t defeat them at once. And as the leader took a glance at me and raised hi hand, I rose up and ran awayas quickly as possible. It was hard not to look back, but I didn’t and I accelerated as the men trailed me in their hoverscooters. I bolted through alleyways, roads, streetlights, until I reached the ghetto where I was left and entered the door I was told to enter. I saw an old lady, and I quickly figured that she was my grandma. I grabbed her hand and rushed to the dock. There was no one there, only me and my granbdma and the brown ocean water. I dug my head for ideas, but none came up.
At this point I was like, “Oh sht they’re behind me!” I had to do something to save us, and as the men approached, I did the only thing I had had in my mind.
I jumped to he water, and as it swallowed me, my body transphormed and I was a fish.
Actually, we were both fish, but seriously?
FISH.
Then night came. I left my grandma by the dock, and walked back to the scene where my dad had been murdered. The pain strck like lightning, and that’s the scary part of it. I didn’t even know this guy who had been blown up by some high class gang, but I felt so, so sorry for him. For his life, for his unconditional love toward his only son, for this now orphan little boy of only 8 or 7 that I was in. I felt responsible for the boy, for continuing his life, for taking care of the grandma. The kiss he had left on the boy’s forehead remained, and the thing is, it was also me he had kissed. I felt his love, and now the source of it is gone. It was so sad I almost choke.
I had to continuously remind myself it was a dream, but I kept thinking if it was real. What if, somewhere in this world, regardless of the obviously fictional hoverscooters and brith machine, a boy had lost his dad in a gangfight and now has the urge to avenger? He’s 8, but he already understood what it was to live a frightful life, being hunted by a family enemy that’s practically a legacy.
Someday, the boy will be the one holding the gun. And I kind of hope I’ll be in him when the time comes.
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WOW THAT WAS EMOTIONAL.
I’m tellin ya, I didn’t make that up. It was a long ass dream, I know, but it happened, and it is as it is. Honestly, one of my fav dreams ever.
And I haven’t showered yet. Also, I’ve got alchemy test tomorrow and I haven’t even studied yet.
I guess you can easily tell that high school’s driving me nuts.
