(The first dream of 2014)
I am standing on the side of a crowded road. The traffic is busy and lots of people are milling around the shops and restaurants lining the road. The shopfronts are adorned with multi coloured lights which twinkle in the darkness.
I realise that I'm standing in front of an old, battered, inconspicuous van. I think to myself that perhaps I should get inside the van, and just as I put my hand on the door a man opens it for me and signals for me to get in. Once inside, I see that there are no seats except for the driver's seat, and I sit on the floor with my back to the door. The man doesn't get in and walks away somewhere, and I am left alone in the van.
Though it's dark, I can see lots of equipment stacked in the corner, and there's a computer screen showing co-ordinates I don't understand. From where I sit, the street light streams in through the window, such that just my arms and hands are illuminated.
The scene cuts to one of near maximal darkness. I am aware of the cold, metallic feeling of a gun in my hands. I hold it poised to the darkness, though momentarily I wonder if it's a real gun. I become aware of someone standing next to me, and I understand that they are my partner. We are edging forward in what feels like a corridor, and we can see the gradation of darkness up ahead signifying a room of some sort.
A shot is fired, the sound so compact and brief that it feels unreal, as if it didn't really happen. Neither my partner nor I move, and I secretly wonder why the shot didn't light up the room so we could see, even for a short moment, where we were going.
After a pregnant pause, heavy gunfire is exchanged, and a strong sense of urgency wells up in my being. Heart pounding madly in my ears, the adrenaline rushes to my hands and I shoot into the darkness. All sound ceases and there is a stillness so heavy that it feels damp. I lower the gun and feel in my pockets, finding a box of matches. Lighting them seems like the most difficult task ever, each minor action taking the most concentrated effort (open the box.. now take out one match.. find where the box is in my other hand.. orient to the side.. strike.. completely miss the box.. strike again...)
Eventually the match is lit, and in its brief orange glow, I see that there are many people standing around the room. I then realise that despite all the shots, there is no smell of blood.
Someone comes up to me and slaps me on the shoulder.
Good work, buddy! He says cheerfully. We are always glad when the tox guys come to help us out!
Tox guys? I think. Since when was I one of the tox guys?
A light switch is flicked, and the room is bathed in an unnaturally strong yellow light. Everyone seems relaxed, laughing and chatting amongst themselves. Looking around, there are no bodies on the ground, and I wonder how so much gunfire in such a confined space managed to not hit anyone.. or did it?
We head back along the corridor and up the steps. All up there are about 10 of us, and we head into the kitchen, which is beautifully decorated. In the middle sits a rustic slab of wood serving as the table - the many age rings show that the tree must have been hundreds of years old. Earthenware pots and pans are arranged artistically on the walls, vases of bright flowers are scattered around and bunches of dried herbs give off a deep aroma. What a beautiful kitchen, I think to myself, I would love to have something like this.
The others are gathering ingredients from around the kitchen and starting a fire to cook.
I say out loud, is this not a murder scene? we should be cordoning off the downstairs area.
The man who slapped me on the shoulder comes up to me and says, I am the leader of this expedition, and both the assassin and the murdered man have already been removed. We don't need to do anything else now, other than feed ourselves! With a guffaw he walks away, gulping down cider.
I find it difficult to relax, though the others are chattering amongst themselves happily. The room has lost its chill with the warmth of the cooking fire, and I can smell roasted meat.
I see a woman climbing up to reach one of the higher cupboards, and realise with a start, this is the murderer! we must not let her get away!
That's her, it's Jeannie who murdered the owner of this house! I call out but am drowned out by the cheerful din of my colleagues.
Then I wake up.
I am standing on the side of a crowded road. The traffic is busy and lots of people are milling around the shops and restaurants lining the road. The shopfronts are adorned with multi coloured lights which twinkle in the darkness.
I realise that I'm standing in front of an old, battered, inconspicuous van. I think to myself that perhaps I should get inside the van, and just as I put my hand on the door a man opens it for me and signals for me to get in. Once inside, I see that there are no seats except for the driver's seat, and I sit on the floor with my back to the door. The man doesn't get in and walks away somewhere, and I am left alone in the van.
Though it's dark, I can see lots of equipment stacked in the corner, and there's a computer screen showing co-ordinates I don't understand. From where I sit, the street light streams in through the window, such that just my arms and hands are illuminated.
The scene cuts to one of near maximal darkness. I am aware of the cold, metallic feeling of a gun in my hands. I hold it poised to the darkness, though momentarily I wonder if it's a real gun. I become aware of someone standing next to me, and I understand that they are my partner. We are edging forward in what feels like a corridor, and we can see the gradation of darkness up ahead signifying a room of some sort.
A shot is fired, the sound so compact and brief that it feels unreal, as if it didn't really happen. Neither my partner nor I move, and I secretly wonder why the shot didn't light up the room so we could see, even for a short moment, where we were going.
After a pregnant pause, heavy gunfire is exchanged, and a strong sense of urgency wells up in my being. Heart pounding madly in my ears, the adrenaline rushes to my hands and I shoot into the darkness. All sound ceases and there is a stillness so heavy that it feels damp. I lower the gun and feel in my pockets, finding a box of matches. Lighting them seems like the most difficult task ever, each minor action taking the most concentrated effort (open the box.. now take out one match.. find where the box is in my other hand.. orient to the side.. strike.. completely miss the box.. strike again...)
Eventually the match is lit, and in its brief orange glow, I see that there are many people standing around the room. I then realise that despite all the shots, there is no smell of blood.
Someone comes up to me and slaps me on the shoulder.
Good work, buddy! He says cheerfully. We are always glad when the tox guys come to help us out!
Tox guys? I think. Since when was I one of the tox guys?
A light switch is flicked, and the room is bathed in an unnaturally strong yellow light. Everyone seems relaxed, laughing and chatting amongst themselves. Looking around, there are no bodies on the ground, and I wonder how so much gunfire in such a confined space managed to not hit anyone.. or did it?
We head back along the corridor and up the steps. All up there are about 10 of us, and we head into the kitchen, which is beautifully decorated. In the middle sits a rustic slab of wood serving as the table - the many age rings show that the tree must have been hundreds of years old. Earthenware pots and pans are arranged artistically on the walls, vases of bright flowers are scattered around and bunches of dried herbs give off a deep aroma. What a beautiful kitchen, I think to myself, I would love to have something like this.
The others are gathering ingredients from around the kitchen and starting a fire to cook.
I say out loud, is this not a murder scene? we should be cordoning off the downstairs area.
The man who slapped me on the shoulder comes up to me and says, I am the leader of this expedition, and both the assassin and the murdered man have already been removed. We don't need to do anything else now, other than feed ourselves! With a guffaw he walks away, gulping down cider.
I find it difficult to relax, though the others are chattering amongst themselves happily. The room has lost its chill with the warmth of the cooking fire, and I can smell roasted meat.
I see a woman climbing up to reach one of the higher cupboards, and realise with a start, this is the murderer! we must not let her get away!
That's her, it's Jeannie who murdered the owner of this house! I call out but am drowned out by the cheerful din of my colleagues.
Then I wake up.
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