The Dream Of The Gunner
Saturday, May 28th, 1994I had a disturbing dream last night. I found myself in a darkened room, no one else anywhere except this angry man with dark hair and as tall as me. As though I had just angered him somehow, he glared at me. His face seemed the only source of light in the room, lit by his burning hatred.
As he seethed, he leveled his arm toward me and protruding from his fist was the blue-black barrel of a hand gun. The movement happened quickly and next thing I knew, I saw the circular rim of the gun’s mouth within inches of my face. The bluish glint of the rim reminded me of the eye pressure measuring machine in my optometrist’s office with its bright blue light and probe that touches the eye to get the measurement.
I realized I was about to die and that gaping barrel would be the instrument of my death. Wanting to save my eyes from the fiery blast that would surely come any second now, I turned my head away from the man. This made him angrier.
“Look at me,” he barked softly yet fiercely. “Look at the gun.” What was this? He wanted me to see the shot and the bullet streak toward my eye. It was bad enough that he wanted to kill me and there was no way to stop him. But the bastard wanted me to watch as well. Why?
I awoke then. I still don’t know why he wanted to kill me. But that didn’t matter. Just the fact that he wanted to was enough to scare me out of my wits for a little while.