Can you die in real life if you die in a dream? Or does your subconscious take over and save you in the dream?
I have very vivid dreams. Sometimes I can’t quite tell what’s real and what’s not when I first wake up. I’ve even had to catch myself a couple times because remembering the dream seemed more like a memory.
Did you know every face you see in a dream is one you’ve seen in your waking life? Your brain can’t make up faces. That means the serial killer you dreamt about, the girlfriend you made out with, the guy who attacked you at a house party, your detective partner: those are all the faces of real people. This also means the guy who shot me in my dream is a real person and, most likely, a non-shooty person.
The statistical probability of the average person of running into a serial murderer is not very high. Only 0.1% of the population is made up of persons who have killed another person out of malicious intent.
My head is accusing innocent people of serial murder.
Nevertheless, as I was persuing this unsavory character in my sedan with my partner in the passenger seat they turned and shot at the vehicle before disappearing into the bushes at the edge of a large park. I stopped the car and started to get out, but that’s when I noticed I’d been shot. There was a hole in my gut. I could feel the pain running through my abdomen. My partner went after our suspect and was able to bring him in, but I had to get home to my kiddos. (Even in my dreams I’m a responsible parent.)
I got home hoping I could pack some things to take to the hospital. (No, I don’t know why I didn’t go there right away, or why an ambulance wasn’t called. I said my dreams are vivid, not that they make sense.) I zipped up my hoodie so the hole in my shirt and the blood would be hidden.
We were living in a rather large apartment and I made it all the way up the stairs without my intestines spilling out onto the carpet. My stomach was killing me.
It was around 3am. Both my kiddos had waited up for me. While I was trying to throw some clothes in a bag they came to the living room. I can’t remember what I told them. We had to go somewhere but I didn’t want them to worry so I didn’t tell them I had been shot. I spent hours in pain because I couldn’t leave them again for some reason. (See? They’re 15 and 17 and I can’t leave them alone to get a freaking bullet taken out of my abdomen!)
Finally I got to the hospital. Made some girl (Again, my brain is assuming things about people and assigning them morals based on how they look. What a shallow bitch.) promise to take care of my kids.
My surgery was in a trailer. An old trailer. Like secret backwoods medical procedures from a scary movie old. They rolled me up a handicap ramp on a gurney into a very yellow trailer. Maybe it was afternoon sunlight streaming in the windows. Or maybe some sadist had painted it that way.
Did you know the color yellow is hypothesized to cause anxiety, depression and thoughts of suicide? That really gave me confidence. Not only am I being cut open in a trailer that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the fifties but the decor is specifically chosen to terrify me.
This is probably why my brain immediately switched to swimming with fuzzy baby penguins. Self preservation, yo.
There were also a bunch of toddlers dressed like mermaids swimming with the penguins.
For serious, it’s like my mind broke because it was so terrified of that surgery:
Oh god! This is too scary! Quick make something happy! Hey baby penguins are good! But that’s probably not enough to keep her from panicking so we’ll throw in adorable children dressed as mythical creatures! No it doesn’t matter if it’s so cutesy she’ll want to puke! DO IT!!
And that’s when I woke up with Emmex sitting on my chest, booping my nose, reminding me to get his breakfast.