Dream No. 9857

I will preface this by stating that I have never taken a life nor have I ever had the impulse to take a life. This dream came to me from an unconscious gray area that I have yet to understand. But I am no scientist.

* * * * *

I killed Beverly Leslie. Was it a hate crime? I’m not sure. He was a closeted homosexual dwarf, a member of two protected classes. However he was also rich and white so the question isn’t quite so easy to answer. Ultimately I believe whether or not this was a hate crime is unimportant. It’s not the real issue here. The real issue is whether it was even a crime at all. Maybe there were some extenuating circumstances that take this killing out of the realm of the penal code. Only the jury will be able to answer that question for sure.

* * * * *

We met under cordial terms but he had a sinister message for me. Somehow he had found out that I was infringing on his territory with my pharmacy business and he wanted an end put to me. He wasn’t happy with the dramatic decline in his own business and had decided that I was to blame. So a mutual friend of ours invited me to a meeting. But that’s not when I killed him.

I agreed to the meeting, albeit reluctantly, because I trusted that my friend meant me no actual harm. Beverly Leslie came up and sat down at the counter next to us, wearing a white suit with an orange collar. I noted that his outfit could be viewed as either masculine or feminine. I didn’t dwell on it long though.

Beverly Leslie didn’t say much to me directly, choosing instead to speak through our friend. But the message wasn’t lost on me. Finally I got fed up with the bullshit and confronted him face to face like the adults we both were. Being clinically a dwarf, Beverly Leslie didn’t intimidate me much. Quite the contrary, I saw him as a pathetic little man with a fairy’s voice and really soft skin. He pretended to pay me no attention. Instead he brushed me off and resumed chatting with our friend. I took a sip of my raspberry lemonade. After another five minutes of small talk, Beverly Leslie rose to stand up. He put his knuckles on the counter and threatened to kill me if I didn’t leave his Quiznos. Deciding that he was serious, I got up and left.

The next day I was at my friend’s house discussing the situation. I told her I was certain that Beverly Leslie would try to kill me. He was known to carry a knife on his person at all times and he was small enough to fit inside a box. I was uneasy about the whole situation and there was the distinct feeling that our altercation had gone too far for an amicable resolution. Beverly Leslie was already determined to carry out his threat against me.

The next thing I knew, Beverly Leslie was lunging his tiny body at me and brandishing a knife. Without forethought or remorse, I grabbed him around the throat and threw him to the ground. I tightened both my hands around his throat, intent on strangling him. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking about having to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life. I knew that he would keep trying to kill me if I didn’t stop him. So tighter and tighter I squeezed, our friend crouched next to us looking on. She didn’t really seem to register what was happening and if she did, she showed no signs of disapproval. Finally Beverly Leslie stopped moving and struggling against my arms. He crumpled to the ground and I removed my hands from around his neck.

Our friend looked somewhat taken aback. She reached down and poked Beverly Leslie in the nose to see if he was really dead. He wasn’t. He gasped in a breath and rose like a horror movie villain. My heart skipped a beat and I yelled at her for meddling. She apologized profusely and took a step back from us. I reapplied my hands to Beverly Leslie’s neck and started squeezing again, this time harder and with more purpose. I don’t like having to do things twice. I remember feeling his trachea and esophagus as I squeezed tighter and tighter. This time it was going to work. When Beverly Leslie stopped struggling for the second time, I was a little bit wary. I thought he might be faking it again. But he wasn’t. He was really dead and I was the one who had killed him.

Sometime during the act of strangling Beverly Leslie, I realized that I had efficiently disarmed him of the knife he held in his hand. I knew there was no longer a threat to my life. But I persisted. It’s not really all that clear to me why I continued to strangle him even though he presented no immediate danger. I suppose it was instinct. I think I subconsciously realized that Beverly Leslie would harass me forever if I didn’t put him in the ground for good. In my mind, it had to be done.


* * * * *

Was it murder? I’m not sure. Self-defense comes to mind but the evidence might not back up that theory. Whatever the outcome, I’m not sorry for what I did, nor do I have any regrets. I believe it was necessary to save my life. And given the chance to do it again, I can’t say it would have turned out any differently.


The End.