Homecoming (Lesbian)

CHAPTER 26

I had a dream that night. I was standing in the middle of a clearing in a forest. The dry trees and the ground were covered in fresh snow. Pure, untouched white snow. I was holding a gun in my hands, a pistol. The caliber and the size do not matter, but it was loaded and in my dream, I knew I was about to use it.

I started walking, I didn't know where to but I figured eventually, it would come to me. As I kept going, I ran into a pile of wooden boxes. Just lying there, stacked on top of each other. In the floor next to them, I found a photograph. I crouched to try and pick it up but I hear a loud noise. It took me a second to realize someone had taken a shot at me, but luckily they had missed.

I hid behind the pile of boxes and made sure my gun was loaded and the safety lock removed. The person shooting at me took nine consecutive shots, and then stopped. My signal that they were reloading, so I moved quickly. I lifted my gun and shoot and started walking towards them. The instant they rose to take their shot, I pulled the trigger.

I watched as the person's neck exploded letting rivers of blood flow. I walked up to them, mostly because I needed to make sure they were dead, but also, because I needed to know who it was. I knelled next to them, they were convulsing because of the blood loss. I grabbed the helmet and took it off. To my surprise, I didn't know that person. It was just a man, maybe twenty two at best.

"Who the hells are you?" I asked, knowing he couldn't reply.

I let him on the floor and did the kind thing. Put a bullet in his forehead. Whenever I did that back there... I closed my eyes, I couldn't stare at the person whose life I was going to end. But in my dream, I watched it, like it was nothing.

As he stopped moving, someone grabbed me from behind and stabbed me on my right side. I shook them off grabbing my wound to stop the bleeding. I turned to them and lifted my gun, but the gun was no longer in my hand. It was a hand-to-hand fight. Fine by me.

The man in front of me swing his arm, I dodged it and threw myself at him to knock him to the ground. Once on top of him I punched him as hard as I could, over and over again. I felt his face crack under my knuckles. His lip and nose tear open. I was disgusted with me but I couldn't stop. I had to go home. I had to go home to my family, to Faye.

"You had to go home didn't you?" I heard him say, but I didn't stop punching him. "What about me? What about my family?"

I started crying, but didn't stop. Yes, in order for me to come home, you have to die. And if that's the price I have to pay, so be it. Selfish, sure, but I was going home.

"I'm not letting you do this!" I yelled "You're not making me feel guilty for surviving! I did what I have to do!"

But so had he, so what's the difference between the two of us? God knows. The more he talked, the more it hurt, and the harder my blows became. My arm muscles were hurting because of the strength I was putting into punching him.

And then he didn't speak. He didn't move, and I knew what I had done.

I woke up abruptly, sitting up with my breathing raging. My cheeks were wet with tears.

I took a few deep breath to calm myself down. I hoped my memory would do its thing. That after a few minutes it would forget those horrible images. It didn't. You see, when memories are charged with emotional responses... my brain remembers them easier because the brain saves emotional responses somewhere else. For example, I remembered running into Bill perfectly. I remembered how happy that made me and that our conversation was close and comforting. But I don't remember exactly what he said. What I've told you is a recollection of four hours of conversation by what I think is a summery. I remember the ideas, but not punctual things, except for one thing. I can perfectly recall what he said about Scott and Faye, that their marriage wasn't what it looked like.