It was some time in the 1950's. I didn't know for sure, but everything looked from about that era; the cars, the furniture, the clothing. Yet, for some reason, my family was the same age as now.
Outside the skies were black, but it was still bright outside, just like day. The streets were dead, houses were torn apart, street lights smashed, cars flipped. As I looked out and wondered, somehow I knew the exact time when the nuclear bombs were supposed to drop. I knew when the world was going to end. In all of this, I wanted to keep this information to myself.
"Come on, Andrew, dinner's ready," I heard a female voice call me from another room. It was probably my mom.
I got up from in front of the window and walked into the kitchen. The table was filled with all sorts of food: chickens, turkeys, hams, salads, cakes, pies. I guess this is our last meal together, I thought to myself. I looked again back at the magnificant feast. Something wasn't right. The food was ... uncooked? I shrugged my shoulders and sat down and piled some cake onto my plate.
For some time no one really ate. We sat in silence in our usual seats that we always occupy when having dinner at my grandmother's house. We sat in silence with our eyes glaring down at the food, but not eating. It was indescribably eerie.
"Well, it's going to be two hours, 45 minutes, and ... 17 seconds," I exclaimed as I set my digital Timex watch.
All five faces around the table instantly swung around and looked at me with a glaring evil. I knew I had slipped.
"Approximately, I mean. Know one really knows for sure," feeling my neck tense up as the last syllabol came from my mouth. I cleared my throat and turned my head back to my plate.
Even though I couldn't see him, I could feel that the man sitting beside my brother -- whom I did not know, looked a bit like my father but much younger -- was staring at me, clearly unimpressed.
"What do you mean by that?" he questioned quickly.
"I... I... I don't mean anything. Merely keeping everybody informed of the time, that's all." I stumbled with every word.
"Uh huh. I see. Well, I think you know something. I think you're planning to hide yourself where you know you will be safe!"
How could he possibly know that? A million thoughts rushed through my head, each adding more confusion to the situation. I was trying to come up with an explanation. "I'll prove that I don't know." I paused, comtemplating. "I'll eat something that will cause me to die soon after the bombs will explode anyways," I added sarcastically.
"Fair enough then," the man said, just as my grandmother was bringing a frozen chicken from the kitchen. She put it down amongst the array of also uncooked food. The man looked at the chicken, then looked at me.
I knew what he was thinking of course. "If you cook it I will gladly eat it."
Clearly unsatisfied with my remark, he took the large bottle of olive oil from the table, walked over, and poured it into my glass. Feeling a sense of duty, I immediately picked up the glass and tried to drink it. The thick oil flowed in my mouth. I was ready to just drink it, but my throat wouldn't let it go down. The man came over and tried to force it down by trying to choke me.
After struggling, getting olive oil all over the floor, I finally got some down and began choking. I couldn't breath, I lay on the floor convulsing; not only from the lack of oxygen, but from the terrible taste of the liquid (I think I would've preferred motor oil). My family stood up from their spots at the table to watch, chanting what clearly didn't sound like English. Eventually I died.
From a third person I could see myself laying on the floor, almost in a fetal position. Everyone standing, looking, but not moving or talking. I knew that the bombs didn't end up falling.
I probably picked the worst dream to write about for my very first E2 dream log. It was a lot creepier than how I explained it, more so than any words can describe. Ah well, I'll try again the next time.