everything in its right place

I'm usually a sucker for strange dreams.

I was with my dad. We were on one of those bamboo rafts with the shaded tables. I have no idea what you call them. We were just floating, both facing the sunset, sitting on opposite sides of the table, so that he had his back to me. I asked him why he used to carry a gun around back when I was a kid. He used to bring it with him everywhere, in a neat leather man-purse. At one point he'd hired bodyguards for himself, and security guards for our house. And sometimes, during weekends, he'd go off with his bodyguards to the mountains and practice shooting (these days, he just plays golf). He didn't say anything, and I told him about how back then I used to sneak into his closet to look at his spare gun. I'd hold it in my hand, a little discomfited at its weight, gingerly switching it from hand to hand because it was slightly oily. Sometimes I'd point it at my mirrored reflection. Sometimes I'd hold it up to my temple, just to see what it would feel like. Always, always careful to not touch the trigger area. He just sat there quietly, not moving. I started to feel scared, and I said, reassuringly, that it wouldn't have mattered anyway since I never really figured out how guns work; how to hold it properly, how to load it, which things to pull and push to get those gratifying clicks. He didn't say anything for a while. Finally, he reached into the back of his pants and pulled out a gun. He turned around and set it on the table between us. And, still without a word, he began to show me how to use it.

That's all I remember. I'm pretty sure other stuff happened before that. Things involving a roof-top jungle and a Lord-of-the-Flies/Battle-Royale mentality.

I woke up a little nauseated, toes cold and oddly exhausted.