Lie Smith

Doubts persist, lingering in the corners of the mind, still waiting in ambush in the pre-dawn REM activity, mixed in with the other dreams, of which i now speak.
The courtyard is accessible through a single gate, which is closed. He and the small band, maybe five strong, have set up one of the old walk in refrigerators as an arms cache, with others scattered throughout the neighborhood that surrounds this tightly guarded complex.
A flash of summer sun, as the six of them gather in the close, frigid space, explaining to the young black boy how important it is that, should the temperature reach triple digits, he run as fast as can, carrying the large block of ice, to the most elderly and frail in the community, that it's coolness will give them some sort of relief, stay off the closely approaching reconing.
Back at the complex, he sees a dozen men, climbing the walls that ring the courtyard, standing out plainly against the light stucco, then lining up on the roofs, spreading out as only figures in RockStar games do, encircling them with guns and the promise of lost lives. He turns to the others, the six, and finds one left, the Rumanian, who seemingly already knows that they are there, coming for us, already on his way into the store room, now on ground level, just ten minutes ago a basement room, and vaporizes.
I am alone. Alone in this cold room, frantically searching for guns in the box in front of me, the box that countless times before contained 9-mm glocks, maybe an Uzi.
I find pipe-cleaners, the cartridge of a ballpoint, what looks like a gun, but is only a broken stapler, and see him to my left, with a cowboy hat, aiming a large weapon at me with his tan shirt unruffled by the battle. I realize that the gunshots had stopped the moment I entered the 'fridge.
Vaulting backward, I slam the door to, only to realize that it is the door of my room, here, that i could easily smash down with my bare hands.
I huddle in the corner for a brief moment, in the knowledge that i am out of options, without guns, sitting in a small room waiting for a cowboy to gun me down ...
Doubt racks my mind, thinking of her, thinking of how I should reconcile, call her back, meet and lay things down on the line, clarify my pain, end this torture of the soul, this fear and loathing seeping out of my eyes.
I will run it by my advisors, those whom i trust most, to see if they agree with a premature meeting. we'll see.
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