Fucked Up Dream
2004-05-14 12:43 p.m.
So I wrote this thing last week some time. I fell out of bed after having this dream and wrote it down, just cuz it really bugged me out. A lil to real and a lil too close to home.Alright, before I begin with this, just know that me and my father are on really good terms now. Almost to the point that I could say we're friends these days. We didn't grow up very close (he was barely around - as in seeing him a few times a year at some points), but since I've moved out here, we've been pretty tight.
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I dreamt about killing my father today. It was very real, which made it incredibly scary.
It started out with me picking him up at the airport. He was visiting me here in NY. Strangely, we ended up in Canada at �his� place. It was myself, 3 of my friends and my father. The house looked strangely like my grandmother�s old house that he grew up in, and then later, I practically grew up in.
We were sitting in the bedroom watching TV. My dad was making some dinner for us. One of my friends suddenly felt sick. My dad came in and took him to the other room. A few minutes later, my other friend went to check on him.
So, it was 2 of us and my father sitting watching TV. He just came in with some pasta he prepared. While waiting for the food to cool, we sparked a conversation. It was a normal conversation, between the two of us, which basically means it�s strange and uncomfortable.
Eventually, the conversation started getting a bit more odd than usual. He started getting a bit mean. He can have some cruel jokes at times, but everyone kinda laughs it off, as they are pretty funny. Well, he was being a bit more cruel than usual, and I was the butt of his jokes for this round.
I looked at my boy a lil wierded out, as he wasn�t being his normal �kina-mean-but-corny�, but rather cutting a bit deep. So, while eating away, it seemed worse and worse, and finally, I spoke up.
�Hey man, what gives? What�s with being an asshole? I think we�re gonna go.�
�You�re no going anywhere,� he said and grinned in a really uncomfortable way. Uncomfortable for me and my boy, that is. Things began to slow down tremendously. My boy gave me a look that screamed �what the fuck is going on?� I returned with a glace of �Fuck, I have no idea.�
Once my father noticed we were being affected, he said �See, nowhere to go, now that the (Forgot what he said, didn�t matter) has kicked in.�
I asked him, �What the fuck!? Why are you doing this?�
He made a few more bad jokes and then went on about how bad I was when I was younger. All the trouble I got into and all the hell I put my mother through.
I wanted to tell him to fuck off. He wasn�t around for anything, who does he think he is trying to reprimand me? I held my tongue. Something in me was smart enough to notice that he just drugged me and talking shit is probably a bad idea.
I didn�t know what to do. My boy started to look really fucking scared as he was realizing his reaction time was slowing.
My father stepped out again. This time I had images in my head that he might be finishing off my other boys, but I honestly had no clue.
I slowly told my boy �W.. wWee� got.. tta.. g-.. goo�
He nodded back.
Everything was far too blurry for me to actually �look� for anything, so I began to tumble around feeling for something to attack my father with. In a sleeve in a crickety old wooden drawer, I found an old revolver with bullets already in it. It was heavy and deep black. Being drugged made it feel like it was 150 lbs. I dragged it back to the bed with me, and slid it under my leg.
My father came back in, talking more shit. I asked him again �W� Why� d-did� you� d-drug me-eee?� He stepped forward and looked over me. He snickered and flicked me in the head the way he used to do when I was a kid. Then he walked to his dresser to grab his jacket.
I stumbled off the bed in front of him. I lifted the 2 ton revolver and aimed it as high as I could. I shot. His expression changed. He went from confident to I can�t believe he just shot me. He examined himself and found that his belt had a rather large dent in it. He looked up, and readied to lunge at me. I couldn�t tell if everything was slow because of the adrenaline or the drug.
I tried to lift the gun again. Really slow and heavy. I squeezed out another shot. Out came a solid flow of molasses or oil of some sort. It splashed onto his stomach. Another shot. Same deal, splashes out onto his chest. **
I dropped the gun and sloppily scrambled to the bed, feeling around for anything to hit him with. He hobbled next to the bed and fell to his face. My boy passed me a can of black spray paint he found beside the bed. I reached down beside the bed, and as he was pushing himself up, I grabbed around his head and sprayed into his mouth and nose until he stopped moving.
I was still in shock, and still very drugged, but I seemed to be a bit more mobile. I stumbled to the front of the house to find the address. I stumbled back in and picked up the old phone. Strangely, it was one of those ooooolllld phones. One of those phones with the long stem and you talk into the stem while holding the earpiece to your ear.
I somehow got through and told the operator the address.
What about my boys? Are they dead? Where are they? Why did my dad flip out? We stumbled back out front, far too fucked up to try to find anything out right now.
Then� I woke up.
** I believe the molasses in the gun is very similar to other dreams I have. A lot of my �helpless� dreams involve me getting in a fight, and when I punch the guy, my arm moves as if I were punching in water. Essentially, when I connect, it�s more of a pat on the face than a hit. I�ve had this happen in hundred�s of dreams, when a fight would ensue. It seems to me the black, thick liquid was debilitating the bullet in that same way.