Freud

A dream. I know no one wants to hear about someone else's dream, but unlike you the world revolves around me. So I told my dad about it. Haven't gotten a response yet.

Let me tell you about my dreams last night. They were truly haunting and you were in all of them. If dreams are, in fact, omens, these ones are bad.
First it's you and I driving a Volvo. You're in the driver's seat and we run out of gas as we're trying to get away from something. I say, "Dad, you didn't put gas in?" It was your fault and you just told me to run. So we run. As we turn the corner you come up to me-I can still see your face, pale, as you lean over the wall and throw up. You're sick, you say.
Flash forward, we're in the backyard: You, me and mom. You two are still together, and we're playing with a baby, my brother, your son. You're teaching me how to massage its back, telling me if the skin turns white I'm pressing too hard. And I'm smiling and being gentle. I love this baby. Mom's at the BBQ, and you and I are off by ourselves, doing dreamlike things. The baby sits near the grill. Mom comes over to us and the BBQ explodes, we all laugh and go ooooooooohh until I ask where the baby is and my dream turns panicky. The smoke clears and the baby still sits next to the grill, however, when I go over to it I find that it is just a doll with one big eye and one small eye, mismatched, a creepy effect. I throw it aside and find another doll, throw it aside, and look to you, resigned. "Where's the baby?" You point to the roof. I climb up there via tree branch and find its organs, exaggerated, intestinal shaped, pink, sad. We share a moment then, I look at you and you look back, blurred, the baby forgotten, the dream already past us.
I woke up and told Claire about it. It got to me for some reason.
-Pat