This little boy murdered me in my dreams. A twelve year old, blonde-haired blue-eyed. It was the first time that my being had ever experienced being shot. The child put a pistol up to my chest at point-blank range. He had no fear but at the same time he had no idea. The bullet pierced through my heart. The kind of machine he used to kill me was irrelevant, as my organ, and my life shattered regardless. It felt like a part of me was killing myself. There was unbridled panic and every instant carried with it less of a chance for survival. I opened up, realizing unbroken blackness. I woke up and wandered for miles. This was not me. I had not been able to deal with the thoughts resulting from this dream like usual ones. Every time I saw a child, they aroused those fears. Violence begets violence, and since I could not distinguish between the waking world and that of slumber, I thought of terrible things without any inner moral recourse. There were people around that seemed to recognize me, yet I did not know who they were. I could not spare my vapid thoughts to anyone else. That was when I truly gained an appreciation for reality. I reached the river. I fulfilled my unnatural desires and then threw myself into oblivion. I was awakened.