I had a dream once.
My family went on vacation and we went to an outdoor mall to eat. After finishing a meal at our favorite restuarant chain, we walked to our cars laughing about past and present misfortunes. Children sprinted through the wide walkways despite the pleas of exhausted parents. Teenage romance bloomed among the shadows of light posts. I felt content in the presence of family and the company of strangers.
We loaded into 3 black Chevy Tahoe SUVs. I entered the first vehicle and leaned against the cloth seats feeling deeply satisfied. We sat in the vehicle as our driver manuevered the car through the congested parking lot. The flashes of brake lights interrupted our conversation and laughter until the sounds of gunshots muted my family. I covered my eyes from shattering windows and flashes of light. The smell of gasoline and smoke nauseated me. In the crevice between the driver's seat and my bullet ridden chair, I did not notice the quiet. I did not notice all the screams were outside of the car, and there was only one sound inside the car, stillness. The type of stillness which only exists without life. I did not need to see their bodies, the silence told me all I needed to know.
I felt pressure around my shirt collar. They dragged me through jagged glass and puddles of blood out of the black Chevrolet. Black masks shouted commands. Semi-Autmotaic rifles enforced compliance. Between my cries and curses, I knelt in front of the porous vehicle. With knees scraped from bits of glass and the texture of the pavement, I voiced my despair. I wailed as they tied my hands and feet together. I howled my sorrow until the captors took pity on me and used a rifle butt to ease my suffering. With a freshly cracked skull and shattered family, I emptied my grief onto the pavement and hoped I would never wake up again.
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