Stream of consciousness prose: Dreams

I had another one of those dreams again. Everything seemed so real and so vivid….
After a violent act, I felt as though someone pulled the plug and I was funneling down a horrible drain.
There was no turning back or ways to apologize for what I did.
It was too late for that.
The damage was done and the blood on my hands became very real. Suddenly, the games I played were over and nothing was fun anymore.

I leaned forward with my chest against the trunk of police car and my hands were pulled behind my back. The swirling roof-lights flashed against my face like something out of an evil circus.
I was crippled by the sound of handcuffs locking into position, and as the officer closed them tightly around my wrists, I knew there was nothing I could do to get out of this.

My hearing seemed to be muted and the peering eyes of curious bystanders were like faceless nightmares. I could hear the police radio; I could hear the commands of the arresting officers, but my mind was disconnected. I was lost in my own wreckage and mentally detached.
Next, I was moved from the trunk and shoved into the backseat of a squad car. I could feel the bystanders watching me. In fact, I felt as if the entire world was watching.
The helicopter finally flew away and turned off its search light. The summer winds blew as they always did, but on this night, they seemed relentless and brutally cold.

I waited in the backseat while a collection of officers huddled and talked about whatever policemen talk about.
I thought about my trip from that point on. I thought about the precinct and the paperwork. I thought about the mug shot and fingerprints.
I thought about the fence I would have to sit behind and the local homeless with their piss-soaked pants.
I thought about the babbling complaints of new inmates and how almost certainly, someone somewhere would be cuffed next to a wooden bench, and complaining that their handcuffs were too tight.
Then there are the jailhouse lawyers; they know the system well enough, but they never learn from it. And had they learned, perhaps they would not be locked behind a cage.
I thought about the first time offenders and the DWI drunks…..the drunks are the worst. These are the people I would spend the night with, and as the officers returned to their vehicles, I waited for my trip into processing.

Two officers sat in the car; one was driving and the other was in the passenger seat. They spoke about life as if no one else was there. However, when they spoke to me, they spoke as if I were no longer human. Instead, I was the decay of our society.
I was told, “Keep your fuckin mouth shut,” and that was all.
When I was a boy, a truck pulled into the gas station near my house. There was a deer tied to the roof. Its eyes were almost doll-like and black. Its lifeless body was displayed as a trophy.
Sitting in the backseat of the police car, I felt the same as that lifeless animal. My insides were removed and my eyes were lifeless. I committed a social suicide and the cuffs around my wrists were like the tag, which was tied around the deer’s antler.
I crossed the line….
Every punk talks about how tough they are, but when the smell of unclean men infiltrates the nostrils, and when the doors close and echo with the sound of an incredible doom, that’s when the truth comes out.
Sitting amongst the godless, the crooks, the thieves, and worse; sitting amongst the drunks that scream until the early hours of morning, and next to the junkies, the homeless, the wife-beaters, and pedophiles, there is no pretending. There is no retreat or place to hide. There is no place to step away to, or sanctuary to find peace. There nothing but slow moving time and limited amounts of space.

When we arrived at the precinct, the officers retrieved me from the back seat, and then they escorted me up the cement steps to a brown door. The door opened to a room with light green walls and a white ceiling.
Inside, several uniformed officers sat at desks processing information into a computer.

I was told “Let’s go,” and led into the room by my arm.
“Is this him,” asked the desk clerk. “Yep…that’s him.”
I wanted to scream. I tried to speak but my tongue failed to agree. All I could do was allow my body to be moved. All I Could do was focus on the haunting faces behind a chain-linked fence, and wonder where I went wrong.
The first thought I had before waking up is, “What have I done?”
I worried, “How am I going to explain this,” and, “Who’s gonna bail me out.”
This is when I realized I was dreaming. I said to myself, “It’s just a dream,” and I tried to wake up.

You ever wake up from a dream but you’re still dreaming?
………it happens to me all the time

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