Entry 3

When I was younger I was convinced my big brother was a superhero. I was never big into comics, but I had seen all the superhero movies: Superman, Spiderman, X-Men, Batman. I thought John was one of them and that one day they would come out with a movie about him. I didn’t know what his superhero name was, but I was sure he had one. The reason for my superhero belief was simple. I had seen John do things I knew no one should be able to do.

John was athletic and smart, everyone knew that, but I knew John was so much more. He had never once been sick in his life, not even the chicken pox. When we were in elementary school I had watched him do calculations in his head that he should not have even known how to do. When we lived with one particularly bad foster family, John had tucked me in each night by reciting Treasure Island from memory. When Ellen had ordered a new couch once, the movers had left it in the wrong place. John had picked up the couch and moved it by himself. It had taken two men much trouble to bring that couch in. John had done it by himself. I thought he was a superhero. I asked him once, but he had laughed and said, “I’m not a superhero, Carlee, just an android.”

If my brother had been Superman and he had been shot, the bullet would have bounced off his chest.

My brother was not Superman. His t-shirt was quickly absorbing his all too real red blood.

My brother was shot in the chest at point blank range. Instead of falling to the ground and dying in a pool of his own blood, he looked down at the wound with disappointment and annoyance. The gunman looked like I felt: shocked and horrified. He also looked surprised that John was not lying dead on the ground.

John reached forward and took the gun out of the shocked man’s hand. John then stepped up the man and knocked him over the head with the gun. The young man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

“Keep this for evidence for the police,” John said, placing the gun on the counter next to the shocked cashier. John then looked at me. “Come on, Carlee. Forget the drinks. We have to go.”

“Go?” My voice was hoarse and squeaky; my eyes were glued to the still spreading blood. At the rate he was bleeding, his entire shirt would be red shortly. “John, you’re hurt! We have to call the ambulance.” I could not fathom how John could still be standing, not with a hole in his chest and the amount of blood he had lost. I was no anatomy expert, but I could tell the shot had probably gone straight through a lung.

John ignored my words. He very calmly walked across the store, firmly grabbed my hand, and dragged me out of the store.

“John, you’ve been shot!” My voice was shrill even to my own ears. I could not believe what was happening. My brain would not even work. My legs were barely working.

“I’m fine,” John said. He pulled me out of the store. Instead of taking me to the car like I expected, he pulled me around to the side of the building. He stopped, looking about to see if anyone was around.

“I’m sorry about this, Carlee,” he said softly, his face looking apologetic. I could not believe he was apologizing to me when he was probably dying before my very eyes. I could not believe we were not calling an ambulance and get him help. He had been shot for crying out loud. I had seen enough people shot on television to know that John’s wound was not one he should be able to walk away with. He should be lying on the ground, dying.

“About what?” I demanded on the verge of hysteria. I had never gone into hysterics before, but I could feel its fingers digging into me. This could not be real. None of this could be real. It had to be a dream. “John, you’re bleeding. If you don’t get help, you’re going to die.”

“I can’t die, at least not from a gunshot wound,” John responded calmly. How could he be so calm? “And now it really is time for us to go.” His words confused me even more. Did he mean go to the hospital? He was right it was time to go to the hospital. If we were going anywhere, why were we not getting in the car? Why were we standing behind a convenience store?

Suddenly our surroundings changed.

John let go of my hand, and I stumbled back in confusion. I recognized my surroundings but it was not possible. We were standing on the patio of the main building of the music camp John and I attended every summer. A moment ago we had been at a convenience store. This simply was not possible. John was standing in front of me with a bloody shirt, and we were both standing on the patio of our music camp.

“It’s a dream,” I suddenly realized. Nothing else made sense. John had been shot but was not dead. Our background had changed suddenly and drastically. It was just like a dream. I began to laugh, realizing it had to be a dream. John was not hurt. It was all a dream.

“Carlee,” John said softly, gently taking me by the shoulders. I looked up at him, still laughing hysterically.

“It’s a dream,” I laughed. “Just a dream.”

“No, Carlee, this is not a dream,” John responded in his calm, sincere voice. “I’m sorry I had to bring you here, but I’m injured and I need to be repaired. I had hoped something like this would never happen.” My laughter was fading in the sincerity of his words. Dream John was very convincing.

Suddenly a strange noise came over the camp intercom. The noise sounded rhythmic and patterned, almost as if it was a code or language.

“Stay here, Carlee,” John said once the noise finished. “I have to go get repaired. I will come back for you. Just sit here and rest until I come back.” He motioned a rocking chair on the patio. Feeling numb and dumb, I sat down.

John gave me a long look and then disappeared through the building’s front door. I stared after him, wondering what he meant by getting repaired.