Dream Interpretation

Today was the biggest day of Kaylee Myles' career. She stood in the front of the Washington National Cathedral and prepared to sing for the President. He'd been re-elected for a second term and she was glad. She thought he was a handsome guy who thought a lot like her. He'd fought a conservative congress tooth and nail for four years to get his more liberal programs passed and to add insult to injury, he'd been re-elected by a surprisingly landslide margin. All his Republican opponents could do was gnash their teeth in frustration through another term.

Surrounded by Secret Service, the President now sat on the front pew only a few feet from her. He sat next to his lovely wife and he looked directly at her now smiling that telegenic smile that had charmed a nation. She blushed and her heart was nearly bursting with pride that of all the singers they could have chosen for this occasion, the President had picked her.

She knew she was a controversial choice if only because of her appearance, not even considering the explicit lyrics of some of her popular songs. She kept her head shaved bald and her face was tattooed with black streaks. She'd heard more times than she'd cared for about how she could be so beautiful if only she allowed her hair to grow and hadn't chosen to mutilate her face with ink. In interview after interview, she'd been asked about this choice.

She shaved her head as a tribute to Sinead O'Connor whom she'd admired as a child and the singer she modeled herself after. The face tattoos had been an impulse decision she'd made when she was fifteen when social services had taken her away from her single mother and placed her in foster care. She'd administered the tattoos herself as an act of angry defiance and although she didn't regret the decision because it gave her a distinctive identity, she certainly didn't recommend it to anyone else.

Her explanation for the shaved head was true, but she'd lied about the tattoos. The truth was she didn't know. She didn't remember her life at all before the age of twelve, not until she'd been adopted by a kindly elderly couple from Los Angeles. The tattoos were already there and in her naivete at the time, she'd believed they were birthmarks"God's tattoos, her adopted mother told her. She'd become a teenager before learning the difference.

The tattoos weren't the only thing that marked her. The dream was the other thing. It had come to her for as long as she could remember; maybe not every night, but nearly. Sometimes the details were different, but it was always basically the same. She would find herself in darkness and fear that she'd gone blind. Then she would hear the faint ticking of a clock. She believed her sight would return if she could only find its location, but no matter how desperately she tried, she could not discern its direction. In another moment, a window would appear above her head. Through it, she could see a leafless tree and a falcon circling above it.

She would find herself able to stand and as she did so, the ticking would grow louder. She would walk towards the window and its decibel would increase with every step. By the time she reached it, she had clapped her hands against her ears in a vain attempt to block the pounding sound. As she gazed through the glass that overlooked a large city, the falcon would screech and propel itself against the window. In the moment before it struck, she realized the ticking's source was her own heart.


She'd spent her life trying to interpret the dream. She'd read volumes of books on the subject, but in spite of everything, it still baffled her. No matter how many times she had it, she still woke from it sweat-drenched and terrified. She guessed it must have originated from that time before her memory, when she must have been the victim experiences so traumatizing her mind erased it to protect her.

There was a part of her that believed her mind was right. Perhaps she was safer to not be at the mercy of her past, whatever it was. Perhaps if she had not been, she would not have accomplished all that she had. But another side of her wondered if her dreams were a warning from her unconscious self of some future event she had best beware of. Whatever the case, the truth was she didn't know, and there was nothing to be done for it but to live her life the best way she knew how.

Now, as she smiled back at the President and stepped to the microphone to sing the song she'd chosen for this occasion, a song about peace and the beauty of the human spirit, she had to believe she'd done pretty well to make it to where she stood today. As soon as she sang the first note, she heard the ticking from her dream for the first time while she was wide awake. She tried to tell herself it was only nerves, but as the ticking escalated before she hit the chorus, she could no longer deny its reality.

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Outside the cathedral, an elderly woman wearing black from head to toe spoke to a man of similar age and dress. Although the area was thick with people, no one stood within two arms' length of either of them. Their eyes shone with excitement; more excitement than the re-inauguration of a president could have possibly offered.

"It's almost time," the woman said. "It's what we've waited for all our lives."

"Yes," the man agreed. "All is going according to God's plan. We should move to a safer distance so we are not swallowed in His glory."

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The ticking in her brain became so loud it overwhelmed her song, but no one else seemed to hear it.

It's in my heart, she realized. The ticking matches the rhythm of my heartbeat just like in the dream. Though her lungs swelled with song, the music did not reach her ears. The President and the First Lady looked up at her with wide smiles, seemingly touched by the power of her voice. The audience too appeared enthralled as she sang, but something told her trouble was eminent. Something told her that this moment, the largest of her life, was what the dream had foretold. From her vantage point, she could see through a single window. Through it, planted on the lawn outside, she could see a tree, its branches denuded of leaves, and as she watched, a falcon swooped to perch atop it.

This is the moment my dream foretold, she thought as she began the chorus for the final time and her ticking heart beat in her ears like a bomb.

A bomb, she thought. In an instant, she understood. A snippet of memory came to her: waking from a surgery of some kind to see hooded faces standing over her. We are patriots, one of them said to her, and you are God's chosen. You have been bestowed a glorious duty. Why did she not remember until now? What had those people done to her?

As the last note of her song escaped her lungs, she sprinted across the cathedral and slung herself through the window. The sound of the breaking glass barely registered to her over the bomb's ticking. An instant after, her body detonated in a fireball that people claimed to see from miles away. The leafless tree was incinerated, but the hawk escaped, losing a tail feather or two in the process. The ground below burnt the grass down to the roots and the land there remained black and desolate for years to come. A charred area that people agreed resembled an angel was imprinted against the cathedral's stones, but it was otherwise undamaged. All who attended that day and witnessed a spectacle they would never forget, including the president, were unharmed.

"I do not understand her death or fully what I saw that day," he was quoted as saying. "But I was moved by her song."

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"How could she have known?" the woman in black asked the man.

"Satan must have told her," he said. "But we will try again and this time we shall succeed."

The woman shook her head in regret. "God bless America," she said.