Cop Video Game 101: Don't shoot the good guys.

It's Saturday. What I'm about to tell you happened seven days ago. 7 days is how long it took for me to calm down enough to make this into a readable story without an excessive amount of profanity. (so, if the amount of profanity below is bothersome to you, just imagine it a week ago, and you'll probably wet your pants).

When I'm in the Rio Grande Valley, I usually don't want to be. Actually, I've never wanted to be in the Rio Grande Valley. However, my parents live there (Harlingen) with my youngest and eldest brothers, so I go there often. I used to work there. My dad is a pastor, and I was his youth pastor. 6 years ago. For 2 years.

Now, when I go back 'home' for the holidays, or for some other unwitting circumstance, I find myself constantly trying to escape. Either by taking on some project (my last interview turned into a 6 minute video that took about 80 hours to make... while I was 'home'), or by simply killing time at night while I'm alone, and therefore sleeping straight through the days.

So, more nights than not, I borrow keys from my mom, head up to the church at around 9pm, and work in my dad's office through the night. I'll work online, write blogs, play music in the auditorium (grand piano + full drumset = Meshach's playground), or just generally kill time.

Last Saturday was no exception. I'd spent the week with the time-killing project of labeling all of my equipment cases with a stencil and spray paint. It looks great. So good, in fact, that I found myself looking for extra stuff to slap this retro 80's hot pink dripping stencil onto. I remembered a flight case that I'd left under the stage of the church years back, and planned to retrieve it while I was at the church. I went to Wal-Mart, picked up an extra can of black spray paint, and headed over. With a few pieces of my gear unpacked on the side of my truck (which was parked just outside my dad's office), I stood in an alley-way beside the church to paint my case, so as to not get any paint onto the building, or any concrete. At most, it'd drip onto some grass that no one ever sees anyway.

It was around 10pm when I got there. I unlocked the church doors, used my code to disarm the alarm system (remembering out of habit the 'safety' word in case I accidentally set it off, and have to call the alarm company), and went inside to work while the paint dried. At around midnight I put my laptop back into my truck, set the alarm back on, locked up the church, and prepared to leave. The last 3 pieces of my gear were still on my tailgate as I waited for my fresh new hot-pink '(me)shach' logo to dry on the top of my freshly-painted black flight case. At some point, I walked over to the side of the building to pee in the woods so I wouldn't have to open the building again just to use the bathroom. I walked back over to my case, and kneeled down to feel the paint and see if it was dry yet. "Fast-drying special neon, my ass." I was in a good mood. My mind was off of the valley. It was on a project. I wasn't on the border of Mexico. I was in my own world.

I saw a strange light out of the corner of my left eye, and heard something. My mind immediately assumed it was a flash light, but in hindsight I realize that I could've just as easily imagined headlights from a car. I looked up and, still kneeling, said "Who is that?" with the same tone as you'd use for saying "Do we have any milk?"

"Show me your hands!" The light was getting closer.

Immediately I thought one of my friends was playing some stupid trick on me. Once, when I was a youth pastor, 2 guys from the youth group saw my car outside the office late at night, and sneaked up to the door and started throwing pebbles onto the glass of the window to scare me. My oldest brother is constantly trying to spark some sort of expression of panic and frustration from me. This is clearly a prank.

"Who is that?" as I try to show my hands without actually giving into the prank too much. The satisfaction on my friends' faces after they pull one over is always so disappointing to me.

"Show me your hands!"

At this point, my mind became a nascar pit-crew, changing absolutely everything at once. My mood, my expression, my posture... everything. At the moment that I heard this ridiculous command the second time, I realized the light was definitely a flash light, but also that it was being propped up by the barrel of a 9mm pistol, which was now about 20 feet from me, pointed at my head, and creeping closer.

"Whoa! Whoa, man? Who is that?" The game's over now, I'm showing my hands clearly. I'm standing up straight, and sub-consciously walking forward to see who is behind the light.

"Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground!"

(note: I had to copy and paste the above sentence, but the owner of this voice spit it out, I guarantee you, MUCH faster that you just read it. I'm guessing those four words were repeated about 29 times in 4 seconds or so at this point)

"Whoa, man! Hold on a second! What are you doing? What are you doing, man? Slow down!" I'm standing at attention now, and trying to think as quickly as I can. This has all been less than 5 seconds or so, and is just happening too fast to process. Suddenly, I realize that my body is thinking for itself, and I'm belly-down on the cement. However, my mind still knows there is a handgun about 15 feet away now, so my arms are holding my chest and shoulders up to keep my eyes squarely on the firearm aiming at them.

"OKAY! I'm on the ground! Now stop! What are you doing, man?"

"Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground!"

(again, cut and pasted)

Out of the corner of my left eye now ('cause I'm not taking my eyes off of that gun), comes another cop (clearly, they're both cops at this point), running, gun drawn, screaming in cadence the command that to me, may as well be "Become a human!" All I can think is, "are they fucking both completely blind? or just bat-shit crazy!?!?! I'M ON THE FUCKING GROUND!"

Before I know what happens, officer number 2 (let's call him "Dickhole", shall we?), does three things in one motion as if he had been waiting for this moment his entire life. Dickhole (a) holsters his gun, (b) changes what he's saying to 'Stop resisting!', and (c) leaps onto my left arm to twist it, throw a knee into the back of my shoulder, and slam the side of my face onto the pavement.

(note to any lawyers reading this: IN THAT ORDER. That's right, screams 'stop resisting' before he lays a hand on me.)

Now, for those of you who didn't know, 2 years ago, while in the valley for Christmas, I was killing time by test-driving an ATV which was to be a gift for my baby brother. It was one he would 'grow into'. The brakes failed, and I flipped it, shattering my left arm. Range of motion took about 6 months to get back to 99%. Strength is still not there. Resistance to pain and future damage will be another year or so. This is the arm that is now bent backwards over my head.

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! That arm is broken, man! You can't do that! Whoa!"

Now, I'm thinking 3 things... (a) when I'm in a panic, I start to sound like Joey Lawrence. That's so lame. (b) my arm isn't really 'broken', but it was, and it's still mending, and I can't very well spit that out in a rush, can I? and (c) WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO ME!

At this point, officer number 1 (he'll be 'Shit-stick' for now), runs up, joining his partner in their new cadence, like two babies who just learned the same new syllables. "Stop reseeesteeeng! Stop reseeesteeeng! Stop reseeesteeeng! Stop reseeesteeeng!" (typed phonetically according to pronunciation. 'Shit-stick' apparently is working in his second language.)

"I'm not resisting! I'm in pain! Let go of my ... " I look up out of my right eye, and see that gun, about 2 inches from my temple. 'Shit-stick' was kneeling on the ground on my right side, holding the gun to my head, and handing his partner his handcuffs.

(second note to any lawyers reading: 'Dickhole' was NOT twisting my arm to cuff me. His cuffs were never removed from their case. This was a simple combat maneuver. It's the move that every 12 year old learns from their uncles in law-enforcement. It has jack-shit to do with cuffing a prisoner... or in this case, a victim.)

'Dickhole' and 'Shit-stick' each grab an arm, and lift me to my feet. This is the first time in any of this (everything you just read took about 30 seconds to happen. Probably less.), that either of them stopped screaming. 'Shit-stick' asks 'what are you doing here?' the way Jack Bower would ask "Where is the bomb?!?!" to Osama Bin Laden himself.

"My dad is the pastor of this church! I have keys to the building in my pocket. I know the alarm code! The pastor's name is on the sign! It's Barry Jackson! My license is in my wallet! It has the same last name! LET ME GO!"

"What are you doing here!?!?!"

Oh my sweet god. Did they not hear any of that? Was that some sort of reverse ventriloquism
where my mouth moves but no sound comes out? I'm going to try it all again.

"My dad is the pastor of this church! I have keys to the building in my pocket. I know the alarm code! The pastor's name is on the sign! It's Barry Jackson! My license is in my ..."

"What are you doing here!?!?!"

Fucking.
Twilight.
Zone.

"What are YOU doing here? I work here! My dad is the pastor here! I was working in his office!"

"It's midnight, bro."

They're dragging me over to the squad car now. Parked just behind my car.

"I know what time it is! Is it illegal to be here at midnight?!"

"You know this looks like a robbery? What's your dad's name?"

"Barry Jackson."

'Shit-stick' calls into his radio... "Do you know a David Jackson?"

(NOTE: My full name is "James David Joshua Meshach Jackson III". My mom, bill collectors, and people who work for my dad's church, call me 'David' - which is the name on my license, 'cause the rest of it won't fit.)

Immediately after the question, "Dispatch" replies "affirmative".

"James David Jackson?"

IMMEDIATELY "Yes." No rustling of papers. No pause to check the database. Whomever was answering the calls at dispatch, knows me.

"What's your dad's number?"

"What did you just say? It's 12:30 in the morning, you're not going to call my dad!"

"What's your dad's number?"

'Dickhole' - "We're not letting you go until we talk to your dad."

"What did I do wrong!?!"

'Shit-stick' - "We can't let you go until we confirm that you can be here."

"You couldn't do that without the handcuffs!?!?! I HAVE THE KEYS TO THE BUILDING IN MY POCKET!!!! CHECK!!!"

'Shit-stick' - "What's your dad's number?"

At this point it dawns on me that I want someone else to know about this. I think, for a second, that my dad will answer. Be livid. Take out vengeance on the sons of bitches that did such horrible things to his son. That he'd answer the phone groggy, and immediately snap into father mode and reach through the phone to strangle this piece of shit on the other end of the line.

In hindsight, I should've just said no. I'd have a much better case if they didn't let me go. I gave them the number. He reads it over the radio, and walks over to the car. 'Dickhole' is standing to my left, and starts saying something to me. I interrupt him.

"Am I under arrest?"

"No."

"Then take these handcuffs off of me."

"No."

"Am I a threat to you?"

"No."

"Then take these handcuffs off of me!"

"No."

'Shit-stick' - "There's no answer, give me another number."

"Of COURSE there's no answer! It's 1 in the morning on Saturday night! He's fifty years old! HIS PHONE IS OFF!!!" The words hit me harder than I'd hoped it would hit them. He's not going to answer. They're going to take me to jail. I'm going to jail for committing the worst crime anyone's committed in Harlingen in 40 years...

Standing outside after midnight.

I'm convinced in my own mind that the best possible thing now is to get my dad on the phone. I give them my mother's number.

"No answer."

My parent's home number.

"No answer."

"IT'S ONE IN THE MORNING, GENIUS!!! OLD PEOPLE SLEEP!!!!"

At some point in the middle of 'Shit-stick' having dispatch call every number registered to a Jackson in south Texas, 'Dickhole' starts trying to interrogate me some more. I think he's becoming convinced that I'm lying, and that they've Forest Gumped their way onto a real hard-case, cat burgler, type of criminal with me. I can't make out what he's saying with all the swearing going on in my head (it's amazing even to me, but us being on church property and calling my dad, I didn't let out a single profanity through this entire ordeal... 'till the end, but I'll explain that when we get there.). I cut him off...

"Are you going to read me my rights?"

"No."

"Look. Either read me the right to remain silent, or shut up and walk away from me. We have nothing to say to each other."

"Fine, bro. Dig your own grave." He walks away, rehearsing lines from the cinematic remake of Starsky and Hutch's interrogation scene in his head, dreaming of one day being a real cop when he grows up.

Around now, a third cop pulls up. He gets out of his car, hands in his pockets, in uniform, but a jacket over everything. He gives the immediate impression that he's in some form of authority. Probably just psychological, since 'Dickhole' and 'Shit-stick' are each about 5'1", and he's a solid 6'2".

"Que Onda?"

(NOTE: from this point on, everything spoken between officers is in Spanish. There has been absolutely no indication at this point that I speak any spanish whatsoever.)

"Resistido."

"Whoa! What did you just say? You just told me I wasn't UNDER arrest! How could I be resisting arrest if I'm not under arrest!"

I am Mattlock.

Officer number 3 (He'll be 'Jackass' from now on) turns to me, and says something like...

"Sé que él. Le he visto en la iglesia. Se sienta en la parte delantera."

("I know him. I've seen him at church. He sits in the front.")

The blood is now rushing from my left arm, after the shock, and pain starts shooting through my shoulder. It feels numb at the fingers, but the shoulder isn't right. It's bad. It's really bad. Did they dislocate my fucking shoulder? What the fuck!? Holy Hell that hurts!

'Jackass' - "What are you doing here?"

I'm tired of answering this question. Especially to someone who's just verified that I have every right in the universe to be here.

"What are YOU doing here? I work here! My dad is the pastor here!"

"Do you know (insert some name here that I didn't recognize so didn't commit it to memory) ?"

"No. Take these cuffs off of me. My arm is killing me!"

"Do you know Cory Jones?" (the music pastor at the church. I was the best man in his wedding. I drove 30 hours one-way to stand in that fucking weddin...)

"Yes. TAKE THESE HANDCUFFS OFF OF ME!"

"(aforementioned unrecognized name) is my son. He plays in the band with Cory. I know Cory."

"I don't care. Take these cuffs off of me."

"Where's your dad?"

"It's one in the morning, where do you think he is? It's Saturday night. He's going to be at the church in about 4 hours."

'Jackass' looks at 'Dickhole' and 'Shit-stick' and says, "Iglesia a mañana." As if it hadn't dawned on him before then.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was working!"

"Are you going to church here tomorrow?"

"No. I'm going to McAllen. Take these cuffs off of me."

"I thought they closed the church in McAllen."

"No. They didn't. My friend, Phil is the pastor there now. He was gone for a while. He was starting a church in Austin. I was in Austin helping him. I LEAD WORSHIP for him after I resigned AS THE YOUTH PASTOR HERE. Take these cuffs off of me!"

"Do you have your phone on you?"

"It's in my pocket. His number is easy to find. It's under "D-A-D"!!!" At this point, I want to bite off my own tongue.

'Jackass' reaches into my back pocket, and starts looking for my phone. I lean over to look at him, as I'm now lying on the hood of the squad car.

"Am I a threat to you?"

"No."

"Then take these handcuffs off of me!"

He motions to 'Dickhole' to take off the cuffs, as he opens my phone.

'Jackass' - "We just need to confirm that you can be here before we can let you go."

"What did I do wrong?"

"We just need to talk to your dad before you can go."

As the cuffs come off, my left arm slowly swings around my body, and I can feel tendons and ligaments stretching, wreathing in pain.

"Give me my phone."

I dial the number. No answer.
I dial again. No answer.

'Shit-stick' walks up and holds out my license. I can't move my left arm, and my right arm is holding the phone. I'm not in a hurry to grab my license. He throws it. It bounces off of my shoulder and onto the car.

"There's your license whenever you want it."

My dad finally answers the phone with a very sleepy and sarcastic "this better be a fire" kind-of "Hellllllloooooo?"

"Dad, someone needs to talk to you." I hand the phone to 'Jackass', who immediately walks away from me. About 30 seconds go by, during which 'Dickhole' starts in on me again.

"Look, we don't have anything to say to each other. Shut up and walk away from me."

'Jackass' comes back over and, holding out my phone, says, "Your dad's still on the line, I told him they through you on the ground."

It jarred me for a second to consider why he would say that to me.

"Dad, you there?"

"What's going on, son? I'm in bed. I'm going back to sleep."

"No, no, no, dad! You can't go back to sleep. You have to tell these guys to let me go!"

"Let you go? What are you talking about?"

"What did he just say to you?"

"He told me his name and said everything was fine. He just wanted to make sure everything was okay. What's going on?"

"Okay, everything is absolutely not fine. You need to stay awake." I held the phone away from me... "Am I free to go?"

'Jackass' - "You're free to go." 'Shit-stick' moaned audibly.

"Dad, you need to stay awake, I'm going to call you back in 5 minutes."

Hanging up, I said, "I need everybody's names and badge numbers."

'Jackass' - "Nombres y numberos." ("Names and numbers").

'Dickhole' scribbles onto a business card as if he's signing an autograph...

"J.B. Lopez #3588
D. Rodriguez #3599"

So, in case you didn't get that, it's...

J.B. Lopez - Harlingen, TX Police Department - Badge Number 3588
D. Rodriguez - Harlingen, TX Police Department - Badge Number 3599

Harlingen Texas Police Station - 956.216.5400

I don't know which one was 'Dickhole' and which was 'Shit-stick', but you can feel free to call him by their real names now. Seriously. Call them. Ask for their real names. Speak your mind. Back to the story.

I take the card with my right hand. I put my phone in my pocket. I pick up my wallet. I put it, with my license, into my pocket. I walk back over to my truck, and use one hand to load 3 pieces of gear (not normally heavy, but with one hand... a challenge) into my truck. I walk back over to the scene of the crime, lock down the lid of my now completely dry case, and drag it over to the truck. I load it up. I walk around to my door, and look over... All three of them are standing 10 feet away... staring.

I call my dad back. "Dad, look I don't know if you're going to be awake when I get home, and I don't want to cause more trouble for you, but I'm not sure what to do here. I'd like to file a complaint, press charges, do something."

"Son, I don't know what you're talking about yet. I don't know what to tell you. I'm getting ready to go back to bed, so why don't you just come on back home."

Thinking that this could get ugly. Thinking that this could make my dad's life very difficult when I leave town. Thinking that I'll be able to escape this in a couple of weeks by simply driving away and not coming back, but my parents have to live here... I decided to go home. At least give him the benefit of the doubt. At least let him hear the whole story. At least let him see my face. The side of it is throbbing from smacking the concrete. There must be marks. He'll see how I can't move my arm. He'll be outraged. He'll wake up the Mayor. Harlingen has 60 thousand people in it. Dad's TV show on Sunday nights get more than half of that to watch. He'll be able to do more than I ever would anyway.

I get in my car, and I say the one thing I've wanted to say for 45 minutes of hell now...

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!"

I use my right arm to put on my seatbelt. I use my right arm to release the emergency brake. I use my right arm to shift into gear. I use my right arm to steer. My left hand, lying in my lap, is flipping the bird.

When my dad hears the whole story, at almost 2 am, he is... tired. He says the things you'd sort of expect... "There was no reason for them to treat you that way." and "I'm really sorry this happened to you."

Then he says something that slapped me in the face like an Anvil hitting Wiley Cayote in the desert.

"I've been asking them for 2 and a half years to patrol the property. We've had break-ins, vandalism... Now they finally do it, and this happens."

I know it wasn't his intent, but he said "... this happens." the way you'd say if you'd been trying to plan free time to mow the yard, and just as you get gassed up, it rains. As if it were a minor set-back. An unfortunate mishap.

I made a conscious effort to separate myself as much as possible. I said things like, "I'm sorry they even woke you up." and "I told them not to even call you". What I wanted to say was, "ARE YOU GOING TO DO ANYTHING AT ALL!?!?! ARE YOU EVEN UPSET!?!?!?! WHAT IF THIS HAPPENED TO YOU!?!?!"

Just then, my mom, through sleep-stained eyes, said, "Well Barry, what if this had happened to you? They did this 'cause they didn't recognize him. These same guys could just as easily not recognize you some day, and do the exact same thing."

"I'd be pretty pissed."

"What if they did it to me?" My mom played the trump card. "I've been up there after dark before. Alone."

"I'm really glad you two are having this conversation. It's nice to think you might be able to put yourself in my shoes in this. Something's got to be done."

"Well, I've got a meeting with the chief of police this week."

I held out the card with the names written on it.

"You need to keep up with that. I'm meeting with him to ask him to increase security at the church. I'm going to ask him to have officers on the property during services. I want them patrolling the building every night." He confessed. Like he'd just been caught sneaking brownies out of the pantry, and may as well admit that he's been doing it for years.

I ask my mom for a heating pad. I take 600 MG of Motrin. My mom helps me take off my jacket. It's my favorite jacket. The front of it is scraped from concrete.

The next morning I call a lawyer. The only one I know who doesn't go to my dad's church. The only one who won't care if security in the parking lot on Sunday morning is a little light because of all of this. The only one who would be ruthless, objective, or worldly.

"What!?!?!" She cried over the phone when I started into my story. "Are you serious?" She kept interrupting me.

"This is good." I thought. "She'll help. We'll start a small army, and we'll seek Justice. We'll be the Justice-Seekers... or the second name that we come up with."

I finish my story with "...my favorite jacket. The front of it is scraped from concrete." and top it off with, "I didn't file an official complaint yet because I wanted to talk with a lawyer first. You're the only lawyer I know who doesn't go to this church, so I have to know your opinion."

Silence.

"You there?"

"Yeah. I'm here. Well..." Her tone has changed. What is this? What is this new tone? When did it change? She was outraged! What happened?

"...how is your arm?"

"Sore. It's really sore. It's not dislocated. There's no swelling. Nothing broken."

"So... nothing that would show up on an X-Ray..."

I knew it was a question, I just didn't want to answer.

"Look, I think it's horrible what happened. I really do. But I think you just move on."

"Move on?!?" I say with sarcasm oozing from my pours.

"Like I said, I think it's awful. These guys are pigs. No question. They're horrible cops at best. But what it sounds like is that you're looking for some sort of recourse, some... Justice, and that's just not going to happen."

She used my word. "Justice." She took my jousting glove and slapped me back with it.

"So I just do nothing?"

"Look, you're asking my advice, right?"

"Yes."

"Here's the reality. You don't have medical bills from this incident, correct?"

"Correct."

"You won't have psychiatric treatment after this, right?"

"Probably not."

"Your dad isn't going to sue them, is he?"

"Definitely not."

"Then the reality is, the only reason any lawyer would take a case like this, is if there were some money in it, and there just isn't. You could win, but not enough to cover court costs, which would mean you're in the hole. That's the civil side."

"What about criminal?"

"They didn't arrest you."

"Yeah...?"

"That's it. They handled procedure incorrectly. It's going to be a pat on the wrist at best. And even then, that would only be to please your dad. Not because anyone in charge actually gave a shit. I'm from the valley. I know this place. It's absolutely rife with corruption. The simple fact is, if you go in and file a complaint, someone may hear it, someone may write it down. IF that happens, someone may file it. IF that happens, someone may read it. IF that happens..."

"Okay, okay!"

"This could take years. Literally. I'm representing a client right now with some horrible things that have happened to him, and while I understand his outrage, I'm telling him the same thing. If you want the best out of your own life, let it go, and move on. You're not going to get anything out of this, and chances are, you're not going to do them any damage either."

"I could go to the media. Local papers and news stations eat this shit up in small towns like this."

"Sure you could. Then you'd be 'that guy'. In your dad's home town. You build up this big local media story, get these guys some bad press, get the church some bad press, either your dad can't get the cops to step onto the property again, or they do, and people don't feel safe around them, then you pack up and go back home, leaving your parents to deal with the mess that these two jackasses created. I'm telling you from experience; you don't want this. Move on."

I hung up. I felt desperate. I wanted to punch something. I wanted to hang myself. I wanted to blow up a car. I wanted to vandalize a church. I wanted to eat 28 dozen dough nuts. I wanted these mother fuckers to pay.

I waited six more days. Then, at midnight Saturday, exactly 7 days after I was thrown to the ground, assaulted and harassed for being up-to-no-bad... I got my revenge in the only way I had left.

Officer Lopez. Officer Rodriguez. Officer Jackass (you know who you are.). Welcome to the internet. Enjoy. May the fleas of a thousand camels rest in your armpits. May your wives' legs grow hair like steel-wool. May your children all be born with clef-pallets. May your ... You get the idea.

Just a general "Fuck You forever" to the Harlingen Police Department, and the legal system of the Rio Grande Valley.

Sincerely,
James David Joshua Meshach Jackson III
Son of Barry.

No clowns. No rings of fire. No popcorn. A different kind of circus.

I had the worst dream I can ever remember having last night. I don't remember details of what was happening, or why I was so terrified, but I woke up at 4am in a cold sweat, crying, and honestly feeling like I was going to die.

I remember distinctly in the dream thinking "Either this is a dream - in which case, I have to figure out how to wake up - or it's real - in which case, I'm dying, and almost certainly going to hell."

I've seen Cirque De Soleil three times, and I've been fascinated and comfortable there. It feels like the most magical and surreal place to watch these seemingly impossible things happen. And though the movement and colors of my dream reminded me (only in memory, not while it was happening) of Cirque, there was a clear sense of impending danger and a sort of mockery of my value as a human to everyone else in the dream. There were acrobats and trapezes. There was a lot of light blue and orange. I remember each member of my family at some point or another, but they each looked the way they've looked in the height of our worst argument or disagreement through my life.

My father was screaming and angry at me. My mother was weeping in disappointment. My brothers were taunting and teasing me. My sisters ignored me in shame. I could feel myself trying to wake up, but I couldn't.

"I'm not going to hell. I'm already there." I thought.

I don't remember objects or even any particular occurrences, but only the feelings and thoughts that I had throughout the dream. It couldn't have lasted for long, 'cause I can't imagine that my body wouldn't have begun thrashing violently very quickly in reflex to such torture.

At some point (the earliest moment of the dream that I can recall with any clarity), I felt 'light'. As if gravity were dying too. In the midst of the absolute chaos and war waging in front of me, all systems of order failing and all of it in direct spite of my well-being, gravity itself began slipping away. But not from anyone / thing else. Just me. I began slowly floating. My body drifted to a horizontal position. It wasn't peaceful or pleasant, the way you'd expect. I started to lose oxygen too. I was hyperventilating. I knew instantly what was happening.

"I'm either asleep, and this is the feeling of me waking up, or this is real, and I'm about to die."

I began trying to scream for help. Not from someone 'real', but from the people conducting the catastrophic orchestra of hate in front of me. I forced the sound from my mouth, but nothing came. Only small puffs of air. I had no voice. They all seemed to laugh. Not audibly, but they individually sort-of shook, as if chuckling to themselves at the thought of their helping me survive. I couldn't breathe.

I was wearing (as far as I can remember) these long blue pajamas. I don't own pajamas. I've never worn them. But these were 'mine'. The way that this war, this circus of destruction, this masterpiece of evil... were mine. The pajamas were comfortable. Which scared me, for some reason. It made me feel numb. Like I didn't know what I liked and didn't like anymore. Like maybe I was losing my mind.

As I floated slowly upward, the world began to yawn. Everything was muddled and blurry. I could taste my tears, and could feel them dripping into my ears as I my body was now perfectly horizontal, facing the sky. For some reason my eyes would not look away from the murderous madness around me, though.

I woke up suddenly. It took about 3 seconds to evaluate that I was not in the room where I went to sleep. Something was wrong. I threw back sheets and covers that I didn't recognize, and instinctively looked down at my clothes. I was wearing blue pajamas. The room was all white. It was like a child's room. Toys thrown around. I knew immediately. It was starting over. I wasn't awake. I was still dreaming. Or, I really was dead now, and this was hell. My eternity would be spent in an endless cycle of nightmares and terrified waking, only to realize that I was still in the nightmare again.

I scrambled onto my feet, and ran to the door. Before I could touch the knob, my body jolted. I sat upright in my bed. I was naked except for boxer shorts. I was sweating head-to-toe. I was crying. My chest hurt, and I could hear my breath. I had a headache. I realized that in the midst of the dream, I had stopped breathing. My body woke up as a way to keep from dying. It was a Code-Red alert to my brain. "Hello? Are you paying attention? The lungs haven't moved in a solid minute. It's time to sound the alarms."

The most distinct feeling that could identify in the midst of the terror and confusion of this morning, was guilt. I can't say what I feel / felt guilty for. I don't really know. But that's what I felt. I felt like everything that I saw in my dream, was entirely my fault. I have worked all day. I've played video games. I've done busy work. I've spent time on the phone. I tried to watch TV. I can't get my mind off of this dream. And I can't understand why I feel guilty. Condemned.

Most of all, at 2:37 AM, I can't figure out how to get my mind off of last night, in order to get back to sleep again.

Thanks for reading this.
Meshach