Two things struck me as a bit odd at this moment: For a start I had un-advisably long hair at the time I was dreaming of and would likely have not been able to feel the breeze on any part of my neck.
Secondly everyone else in the playground was lying dead in pools of their own blood.
Weird that I noticed the second of these two points last, but that's the way it was. As my dream self looked around I could see bodies everywhere. All had their uniform on in an acceptable manner to avoid risk of punishment. All had big smiles on their faces. All were limp as a biscuit after it's been cruelly and repulsively dunked into a cup of coffee (ruining both snack and drink, in my opinion.) The concrete ground was completely red. Ripples were forming in it as yet more gushed out from the corpses laying on top. The windows were overflowing with the insides of those who I guess were in detention at the time or who had simply decided that on the day of their death they'd like to absorb a bit of extra knowledge.
That was the first part of the dream.
The second bit, following a cut as if the first bit was merely a flashback, sees me in my family home. Hello, family. We're all hiding behind our sofa, which is unusual. I think I'd out grown hide and seek by that age and anyway, even if that were the game we were currently engrossed in, us all hiding behind it would effectively defeat the purpose.
Soon the real reason we were there became apparent.
My dad told me, in a way films often use to help fill out the holes in the narrative (like Leonardo DiCaprio explaining to Juno girl how "inception" works or the giant robot car in Transformers telling the kid not-hot-enough to get Megan Fox about how they came from space,) about how there was this mad as a hatter serial killer on the loose and how he'd killed everyone, bar us, apparently. That explains the sofa hiding, then. Not that I imagined it would work. If this guy had killed everyone, literally everyone, apart from us, I highly doubted a bit of furniture would hold him back.
We were about to find out.
A knock on the door. Wonder who that could be? Obviously now, looking back on it, it was only going to be one person given how EVERYONE APART FROM US AND THE KILLER were dead. Still, I'm quite a friendly chap and didn't want to seem rude. So against the advice of my brain and parents (who occasionally liked to see themselves as my brain too) I got up from out of our impenetrable place of refuge and went to answer the door.
At this stage the camera seemed to slow down. I think maybe some dramatic music started playing, although I could be making that bit up for effect.
I opened the door.
There in front of me was a tall man, skinny in shape and awkward in posture.
On his head was a cardboard mask of my face.
Shit...
"Hello, me," I said. Then I woke up.
The other night I dreamt I was half Cameron Diaz. Not as interesting, though, that one...