I had been taking care of a little black-haired Hispanic girl (about 3 years old). I thought the girl had been with me all day, but at some point in the afternoon, I discovered she was missing. I looked all over the small cottage where I was living, but I could find her nowhere. What was worst, I couldn't remember when I had last seen her, or even what I had been doing all day. I recalled the girl and I had left the house for a while early in the morning, but I couldn't remember where we had gone, or whether I had brought the girl back to the house with me.

Finally in desperation, I called 911 and made a missing person's report. A flurry of action ensued: people arrived to search the house; the mother of the girl started calling over and over on the phone, wanting to know what had happened to her daughter; Carolina showed up and tried to help me remember what had happened. But I simply couldn't remember and as the day progressed, I began to fear the worst: that the girl had been kidnapped and would be found dead.

Even though I was innocent, I knew I was the main suspect since I had been the last person seen with the girl. While the police were searching my house, they came across stacks of my written dreams. I had written so many dreams, I no longer remembered what was in all of them; but I feared that somehow the dreams would be used in evidence against me. I had long feared this: if I were ever accused of a crime which I hadn't committed, the authorities would find that I had once dreamed of committing such a crime and would use the dream as evidence against me. I might be convicted of a crime simply because I had dreamed of committing the crime!

The house finally cleared out and Carolina and I were left alone for several hours. The telephone stopped ringing and everything became very quiet; too quiet. I walked through the house, still trying to remember what I had done all morning.

Finally the police returned and asked me to accompany them to a place where they thought I might have gone with the girl earlier in the morning. We left and went to a place which looked like a large outside market, almost medieval in character, with booths of merchants selling all kinds of wares and foods. What I feared finally happened: one of the officers pulled out a set of handcuffs and put them on one of my hands. But he put the cuffs on wrong, letting them simply come together on and pinch my right index finger. Another friendlier officer took the handcuff off my finger and correctly placed it around my right wrist.

As they led me through the market, I began having a fantasy about escaping. The fantasy was so strong it seemed real. My plan would be to first find a large pile of hay in one of the nearby stalls. I would hide under the hay until I could loosen some boards off the floors of one of the surrounding buildings. Then I would crawl under the boards and build a secret hiding place. I could make the hiding place as big and as elaborate as I wanted. I could live there for years without being found out. The conditions might not be perfect, but it would be better than being convicted of a crime which I hadn't committed.

Dream Epics Home Page

Copyright 2009 by luciddreamer2k@gmail.com