Saturday, 4 May 2013

A Dream about Misfits and Bullies

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I had a weird dream. Or should I just say that I dreamt, since all my dreams tend to be weird—I can't remember if I ever had a dream that was not somehow, somewhat abnormal.

In any case, with some fillers for it to make sense, here is what I dreamed:

I am somewhere in a public bathroom standing in front of a urinal and doing the things one do in front of urinals when about four or five boys, anything from twelve to sixteen years of age, enters and starts knocking on the door of one of the occupied toilet stalls. They obviously know who is in there—another boy—and calls him names, telling him to open the door and come out. Some of the boys even climb onto the partition and look over into the toilet stall, saying things like “the faggot is tossing” and the like.

I continue to the basin and start washing my hands, while looking at the action behind me in the reflection of the mirror. The kids seem not to be bothered by my presence. As I shake the water from my hands and start to dry them with some paper towels an adult steps in, at which one boy says excitedly, “Dad, the faggot is in here!” The man, with hair dishevelled and a beer belly, steps to the toilet door and calls to the kid inside, “Open up that door you little faggot!”

To my surprise the door actually clicks open and out steps a nerdy, somewhat goofy looking kid. Because he is a little plump and possibly big for his age it makes it a little difficult to guess his age, but I'd go with about eleven or twelve. “Now show this little faggot what we do to fucks like him,” says the adult, at which point I step forward and says, “So you're the adult coming to solve the kids' problem, are you?”

“Yes,” he answers. “Unless you are someone important who knows people in high places, you better stay out of it.”

“As a matter of fact,” replied I, “I am someone important and know many people in high places.” Even in the dream I had no idea why I considered myself important or who these people in high places are that I referred to, but nonetheless I said it without missing a beat. “Leave the kid alone.”

The guy clearly didn't like my attitude. “Fuck you,” he said, and swung at me, at which I guarded with one arm and stepped to his inside letting his fist pass me, and with my other arm I delivered two very quick elbow strikes to the side of the guys head. As his knees buckled I quickly stepped behind him, wrapped an arm around his neck into a choke-hold and pulled him backward so that he was off-balance.

“Get out,” I said sternly to the kids who started to scramble out off the room; and to the victimised boy I said, “Wait for me. I will walk with you.” I feared that the other kids might jump him outside once he is alone, so I wanted to make sure he got where he needed to get safely.

Then I turned my attention back to the guy I was holding. “Now you listen to me. If I ever hear you mistreat anybody that is somehow different from you, you better sleep very light, because I will find you and when I am finished with you, you will be the different one. Do you get me?” Nearly purple in the face, the guy nodded at which I let him go and he dropped to the floor gagging.

Touching the goofy kid on the shoulder, I led him outside.

That's the dream.

I guess my subconscious harbours some anger towards bullies.

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