I only had this dream once, but it will haunt me the rest of my life.
I was about 14 years old. I was in the middle of some barren, suffocating landscape. No green, everything splashed in dull orange. I walked up to an old dilapidated building, in the shape of a semi-circle. It was a crumbling museum.
Echoing throughout this dream, I heard a song. I can’t remember all the words now, but I heard, “Five Little Indians, standing in a row…” I don’t know where I heard this song, but it comes from an old racist rhyme.
Nine little Indians swingin' on a gate,
One tumbled off and then there were eight.
Eight little Indians gayest under heav'n.
One went to sleep and then there were seven;
I entered the museum, I started walking along the walls to see several paintings, all of the same subject, but each painting was slightly different from the last. It was a row of Native people in their regalia. Each painting got more and more grotesque.
The first painting, they stood there. Stoic and still. The second, disturbed looks on their faces. The third, some beginning to hunch, holding parts of their bodies that looked to be in pain. The fourth, blood and pain were clear. It went on and on until they were on the ground dead.
Throughout all this, some omnipresent voice saying,
Two little Indians foolin' with a gun,
One shot t'other and then there was one;One little Indian livin' all alone,
He got married and then there were none.
That was the dream. I’d never seen anything like that before in my life.
I wonder where it came from. I wonder if I’ll ever forget it. I can’t seem to.