Abra

So I figure this can't be all bad, what with convenient tagging and other features and such. Carbon copying from dream journal, go!

7:00 AM awakening time:

-First part of the dream I'm with my sister and mom, sister's playin' the vidya and mom calls me to help her move furniture

-Later, I was a father, with a wife and two kids. We were moving from slums to slums, because we were being chased by the Asian mafia. We don't want our daughter (age six) to know. Our son (age 14) found out, though my wife has some mental deficit, some automatic repression which prevents her from acknowledging the cause of the mafia's dissent with us, but she is very aware of the danger. so we pack. we pack and we are silent, segmented. Are we being watched? Would they bother monitoring us? We have a plan to escape. I'm staying up all night, nerves a wreck, clutching at every outlet for comfort, thirsty for normal conversation, giving long hugs to my little girl during midnight water trips, coaxing them into midnight snack trips, eager for that added two minutes of family contact. My wife and son believe me, when I say I know where we're going. The truth is, I know they'll never let me leave. Let us leave. This hackneyed plan is only a gesture, all I can do to show that my character does not stem from dogged compliance with this situation, but the drive to do what's right. My last lesson...

We don't get very far at all. I'm on the porch with our last box. We were going to leave at dawn. An agent steps on my foot and is about to say something clever. I tell him to shut the fuck up. I'm crushed, alone. My last lesson...

We're at our new home, mother and son resigned to slavery, daughter introduced with all manner of sinister as to what's in store for her. Only half of our belongings made it here. The rest go to pawn shops. Three agents now, and I recognize them by face. They're here to give me punishment. They taunted me; they were sure I wasn't armed. Of course, I was sure they weren't watching when we packed. I bided time for strategy, but that soon caved in (caved in like my survival rate, judging by the way they talked). By a staircase and a toolbox, I wrenched out of their grip. I shot one down in an instant, turned to shoot the one behind, shooting twice in one fluid turn, so that both shots were at sloppy, thoughtless (no revenge, no regret, only instinct) angles. The third man is terrified. he has a round face and rounded teeth, and a swoopy bowl haircut which makes him look none the less ugly. I make a terrible error: I think. His gun won't fire, he makes no excuse but I'm sure I've seen the shells fly out on an earlier day. I try and bribe him in a tone that asserts confidence, but a vocabulary so honest it betrays the status quo. A door opens from a floor above. I know this well-groomed tan man. I shoot the nervous round-face, and my bullets bounce off his chest. My gun isn't forming a good seal with the bullets...? The bullets are too small...?

The man from above tosses at me some trash, contemplates his pistol, reholsters it, shuts the door as I glance at the flash bomb beside me. As the light envelopes, I can't think about my family at all. Only this. This is death, and it lasts a few seconds, and there's no pain, just a powerful thump to all of my body. Then that is gone. What now? There's the warehouse, and the flash, and I'm

a 19-year-old girl, staring at a sleeping 19-year-old boy, light filtering through the curtains.