I dreamed often situations in which risk of dying, but still, I could save ... or I'd wake up, or run away, or did the long and acrobatic somersaults.
This night, however, the face of death, I died ... in my dreams I did not do anything to escape from death. I let myself go.
What now seems very symbolic, and do not know whether to be linked more to Crohn's disease, polycystic ovary, my characteristics of border-line or my anxiety attacks. Or maybe all this is nothing but mixed ... and the dream is just the icing on the cake!
Anyway ...
I was working at the fish (evening) came a group of five women who put out by ordering a bottle of yellow ribolla. One of these women, blond and very curly, almost frizzy-haired, tended to control the other, saying if they could eat or not. In fact, another came to me and ordered me some secret Sardone (anchovies), shrimp and Pedoca (mussels) to bring fried takeaway. I went back and made myself go to my mother, who was behind the counter, 5 glasses and a bottle of wine. Meanwhile
came a man, bearded, tall, old, French-looking and educated. This stood at the counter and began to wonder if I was serving for the courtesy. I told him I had to have patience for a moment because I was serving the sir.
He did serve in the meantime, George.
I went back out to see if the five women was all right. At that moment the tall, bearded first I was not able to serve was hit by a gun of lords, who were probably of French secret agents, dressed in blue, with a bulletproof vest, he was shot, not making no noise, no becoming too obvious, in fact had the shortness of disappearing immediately.
I failed to see the words that had one of them, the one who shot that was surely his head on the jersey back. There were four letters.
ran inside to tell my mom.
... but I knew that things would end there ...
Day following the early morning we woke up all (sleeping in fish, there was me, my mum, my dad, my sister (?) and other children (?)) because we knew that they would come back to me.
I saw them from the window that they were preparing, they were wearing, and were loading their weapons.
I hid in a kind of closet, but out the window of this closet began one of them with a sort of laser gun began to hit me again and again: all this caused me pain, but was slowly killing me (maybe it was poisonous ... maybe touched some weakness, I do not know!). I pretended to be dead, but he continued and continued.
then killed my sister and my mom and dad were desperate. I was dead but my soul was trying to comfort me. So I followed them and, indeed, if I could put in their arm.
the day of the funeral was also attended by French secret agents had killed me, my mom totally ignored them. After the funeral I sat in his arms and tried to comfort her.
The man who had killed was very sorry, but it was more ordered, said that he was killed in turn by the man who had killed more days before the bearded man that I was unable to serve. It ran off on his black car.
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