I used to make up dreams when I was little. Shocking, isn't it? To be fair, my brothers would always have the most interesting dreams, and being the little sister, I had to try and keep pace with them. So I had to lie. Didn't I? Luckily I've outgrown that, I was only five you know. But now, whenever I have a real, legitimate dream, my WHOLE family quickly dismisses it to "Oh, look at Julia, isn't that cute, she's trying to be all imaginative and interesting again." Well people, it's time to put a stop to that! Especially because I do have the weirdest, vividest dreams ever, and it's a shame they're wasted on an audience of one. So, here's one I dredged up from the memory banks.
I'm waiting at a bus stop. I'm always waiting at bus stops in reality, so in dream-land it's rather predictable. It's a busy part of the day, lots of people milling around. I recognize a co-worker and wave hi. We board the bus together. A man, without a face, as dreams often go, boards behind us, and quickly pulls out a gun. I'm always the peacemaker in my dreams, I try to talk him out of whatever he's going to do. I even manage to share the gospel with him. It's all fairly tense. Then he fires and hits my co-worker. Now I go into "nurse mode." I start holding pressure and scream to the bus driver to head for the hospital. The faceless shooter disappears. Justice is not the focus of this dream. I continue holding pressure, but there's a lot of blood. I can feel it, warm and dark. It pulsates out of the wound, I'm sure it hit an artery. My co-worker is still talking to me, and I realize I don't know much about her, where her family is, who her family is. We just work together and we're pleasantly polite, it's never gone much deeper than that. I get personable now, because of course it's perfect timing, with my hands steeped in her blood. She has a daughter, and a grand baby. Now it will be much harder if she dies. We're at the hospital and I'm riding on top of a gurney with her, still holding pressure. Dream travel, I suppose. They tell me to keep holding pressure until they can get to the OR. Her daughter shows up with the baby, they're able to say goodbye. We're in the OR and I'm wearing scrubs and those weird seafoam-green surgical caps. They tell me I can let go now. I lift my hands up and all I can see is a bullet wound that's almost half healed over. I'm ushered out of the OR and the swinging doors close behind me. I know everything is going to be okay now. But my hands are still red and sticky, the adrenaline of the moment still pulsating through my arteries. I wake up with that same feeling. When I see my co-worker later that day, I tell her I saved her life. In my weird messed up dreams. Oddly, it's brought us closer... maybe someday she'll truly be saved, I only hope it won't involve bus rides and bullets.