I'm in a hurry to get to the theater, which is reminding me in the dream of a story I wrote, although in this case everything is normal. I make it in just as they are closing the door, and manage to get through the descending door by sliding through on my knees, which would be impressive if anyone was watching.
The seats are filled except for several on the back row on the left hand side, so I take one of the middle ones. I feel vulnerable behind everyone with empty rows behind me. I start to think I should leave.
The back doors open, and people carrying various firearms come in, screaming and waving them around. A man, who is clearly in charge, addresses the crowd but I'm not paying attention because I'm trying to figure out how to get out of there quickly. He has a woman standing next to him and she points at me with a smile.
The man yells something to the crowd then pulls out a pistol and shoots me in the stomach.
I don't feel the bullet enter. I wonder if I'm supposed to. I've never been shot before, so I don't know what it's supposed to feel like. There is no pain, and when I reach down I can't find where it went in, and I don't see blood.
He shoots me again, and I realize I'm meant to be the example. I'm the one he kills at the outset to show everyone he means business.
He shoots me a third time and the woman next to him claps. I think to myself what a weird thing it would be if this was a date for the two of them.
The shoots me a fourth time and I realize that my legs won't let me run like I want to. There's still no blood, and no pain, but my body feels weak like I've been shot four times.
With the fifth shot he puts his gun away and smiles at the woman, then walks off. I can't help but think he missed an opportunity to put one in my head and have it be more impressive. Still, I'm glad he didn't.
The woman sits down next to me and things bet even weirder as she begins to interview me as if she's a reporter following up on a story. She asks my name and where I'm from. She wants to know what my favorite foods are, if I have any nicknames, and where I like to drink. The whole time she's questioning me I'm feeling weaker and weaker and she's patting my hand like and old friend.
She asks me if it hurts, and I say no. I can see now that her whole act, everything she has been doing and saying since she sat down, is just her getting the most out of watching me die. She wants to know who they killed. She loves that part.
I reach down to where the bullets entered me and I still can't find any blood, and I tell her this. She looks irritated and calls to the man.
I realize that there is still one bullet left in the gun, and this time he will shoot me in the head. I frantically look around for some form of escape, and I see nothing. There are people with guns everywhere, and cowering patrons begging for freedom.
She smiles at me and pats my hand. "It will be over soon."
In a panic, I realize I'm dreaming, and I take the one escape that's available to me.
Good morning.