Untitled Fiction - The Protest Part III

As Ayla and Ezekial made their way towards the Washington Monument, the sidewalk became more dense with people. They were surrounded by all kinds of people. Some were teenagers like themselves, but others was older dressed like their parents. Ezekial even thought he saw the mother of one of his classmates from school across the parkway. He carefully steered Ayla in the opposite direction. There was no way he wanted this to get back to his parents.

Walking on, Ezekial began to see the immensity of this protest. People talked among themselves as they crowded together along sidewalks and park benches. Some held signs high over their heads. The smell of pot wafted through the air and Ezekial had to be careful not to bump into people who floated by as in a daze. This was nothing like what Ezekial thought the protest would be like. For a moment, Ezekial felt a tightness across his chest and noticed that steadying his breathing took a deliberate effort. Unconsciously, he grabbed Ayla's hand and tried to walk faster to an area of grass that was still surprisingly open. Ayla didn't seem to mind holding hands and Ezekia found that reassuring. Suddenly, Ayla dropped Ezekial's hand and started waving. "There's my friends," said Ayla. Ayla grabbed Ezekial's arm and pulled him towards a group of teens holding signs.

"Get out now!" yelled one of the girls. She looked a bit like Ayla but the rage in her voice could be seen in the wrenching expression across her face. For moment Ezekial thought she was talking to him. Then he realized that she was shouting as part of the protest. He hadn't thought to bring any signs. She seemed to be really into the protest. Then just as quickly, her face relaxed. "You have to yell once in a while. Otherwise, people don't think you are serious about demo-ing." The rest of the group didn't seem that concerned about demonstrating though. Three others sat under a tree and a fourth person lay flat on his back completely focused on smoking. One of the people sitting strummed a guitar but Ezekial didn't recognize what he was playing.

The Dream

Someone once told me that you don’t have to be afraid in dreams of dying because you will always wake up before you actually pass away. But, I used to dream about dying in an elevator. In the dream, I am walking into this building I think is in South America – some repressive country. I know because there are all these uniformed soldier kind of guys carrying semi-automatic machine guns. Anyway, this man and I had been summoned for an interrogation. Dreams are strange about the details that you get to remember. I don’t remember his name but I know that I had slept with him many times. I know that he is a photo journalist documenting the atrocities of repressive governments. I see his face in my mind’s eye – he is tall, may 6’4”, his hair is blond and thinning and a little bit curly, his eyes are blue like the sky on a sunny day, not grayish blue like it is going to rain. He has one of those classic Greek noses, long and patrician. His lips are long and thin but not pinched.

I have been working with the poor here distributing food and vitamin supplements for the children in the ghetto made of cardboard and tin sheets thrown up to form rudimentary walls for houses. I know that I love him. I even know that he doesn’t love me in the same way. Anyway, we walk into this elevator and I reach out for his hand. His palms are sweaty and his fingers tighten and then loosen, tighten and then loosen, and we let go or our hands momentarily in order to turn around to face the door. We hear that spraying sound machine guns make as the bullets fly through the air and then time stops and you know this is the end and you see your body fall to the ground and you know that something has changed but there is all this confusion. I remember hovering over my body still tied to it like with some kind of astral string thing tethering me to my body and I feel a pulling up and away but I am not sure I want to go because I can tell this man I loved is resisting, trying to stay alive when there is no use and I want to help him let go and come with me but I couldn’t do that even in life. What made me think I could do it in death? I float towards a light. I had this dream over and over and over.
One day while trying to find the right train to board in a Boston subway I see this man. I don’t recognize that he is the man from my dream right away. He is looking for the same train line I am. He asks me awkwardly if I know where I am going and we, naive tourists that we are, find the right platform and we board together, sit together. He is a photo journalist from Canada. He is in Boston just for a few days on his way to South America. I am on my way to meet a friend for lunch. I am in Boston to attend a national conference on volunteering with peace organizations. I feel nervous because I am starting to remember the dream.
My stop is announced and I panic. I rush to get off so that I don’t miss meeting my friend. Our hands touch briefly but they don’t tighten, they don’t grip, and I remember that he won’t ever love me the way I want to be loved. I feel the pull to stay on the train with him but I break away saying good-bye quickly and I hope that he will follow me but he doesn’t.
And when I turn to face the door I had just crossed I see the knowing look in his eyes. He understands and I understand that a choice has just been made here. I never had the dream again. I never questioned why.