The saddest part of a broken heart isn't the end.
2005-03-18 @ 9:17 a.m.

My mom and I are running up the stairs holding hands. I am leading her and we feel cautious or maybe hopeful. We are hoping something doesn't know we're there, but he is right behinde us. We run into my first ever bedroom and I am trying to lock the door. I turn the button the wrong way, so when I try and check that it's locked, the door opens and we see Lorne standing across the hallway, in her bedroom door. I hurriedly shut the door again and fiddle with the lock in the other direction. I'm clearly panicking. The lock seems stuck and I contemplate crying and screaming for mercy before I push it suddenly clockwise and the door jiggles instead of opens. He doesn't seem to be aggressing on us in this stronghold. I look through the crack in the door and see him muttering to himself and pacing in my mothers bedroom. Quickly we move to the window to begin our escape, when he starts pounding on the door telling my mom he's going to kill her when he finds her.

I open my eyes, in the most uncomfortable position, and realize that I've been dreaming terrible things again. It's six fourty-two, Mike is in the kitchen making his lunch. I wait until he comes into the bedroom before he goes so that I can tell him I've been having bad dreams and he can kiss my forhead and coo me back to sleep. He does.

Something feels wrong. Things are modern but mindsets are not. I am somehow caught up in a smuggling operation for africans in canada. Lot's of people are dying. There might have been a subplot about something going on at my moms bank because twice I went there looking for her and twice I found dead bodies but never my mom. I wanted to save her. There were little girls that I loved like my own. I was trying to get them out of a building with massive stairwells and many floors through which the stairwells wound. I was carrying Barbies and a little Barbie car. There was a little one in a bag on my back making small noises. Outside there were men waiting to take away our refugess. They had shotguns and held in their hands a baby rotweiler (which in retrospect seems rediculous, but in my dream, seemed dastardly and unbareable) which they intended to murder before they started shooting everyone, unless we gave up the refugees. The little one on my back made small noises. There were brief minutes of blurred images and then mike sitting in the back of one of those trucks, with all of our despairing refugees, saying "My name is Michael Norris, and I want to leave things open..." Then he shot himself in the chest with a shotgun and I vommited white milk and corn. His intestines were somewhere by my foot, and I felt alright touching them, because they were his, and he wasn't with me anymore.

my alarm went off because it was nine oclock.

gauche_____drop_____gauche_____drop_____gauche_____