I get a new camera as a holiday gift and go on a quest to take a great photo. I bring a piece of art and have at least 3 siblings follow me on the shoot. We are in a very poor area where we keep walking up a dirt road. I lay the art down on the ground and attempt to take a photo. I am never satisfied with the frame in the camera. After walking by encampments, shacks, and piles of debris, my memory goes vague. Suddenly, two siblings are shot and killed from shotgun blasts. I black out.
I wake up in a dark room with 1 or 2 younger siblings. We are taped or tied to chairs. I do not know who has captured us. I eventually meet our new master, a famous author with a huge ego (I name him William Gibson). As he systematically breaks us down, he convinces us that he is our savior and wants to be our father. He lives in a bunker of a building and is crazy enough to probably kill us without question.
In one scene he gets into an argument with another man. He threatens to stick a machete in the man’s head, and the man picks up a box of sharp items to protect himself. He pins the writer’s arm to the wall with a huge staple. I watch this and then run to my back room and wake up my little sibling.
He spends most of his time in shock, sleeping, so I try to put some clothes on him and tell him this is our chance to escape. But the writer has freed himself from the staple. He’s very disappointed that we thought we could leave.
After years of being confined, the writer’s ego and assumptions cause him to become weak. He thinks that we are OK with being his imprisoned “children”. He is performing in a middle eastern music and dance concert and I accompany him.
A large group of friends and relatives are at the concert. I find a joint and smoke it while I talk to a female relative of the writer. I have told myself that this is my chance to free myself and my little brother. So I begin to directly and openly talk about being held captive.
The woman doesn’t really get it. She is in awe of the writer’s success and talent. In a larger circle of people, I boldly confront the writer. He accuses me of being addicted to pot and says he’s kept me for my own good. I disagree and tell him that he hasn’t even let me call my mother in 3 years. I begin to cry and babble that I want to talk to my mother and tell her I love her.
The writer become furious. Some of his friends are obviously becoming concerned about the situation. The writer continues to try to frame me as a junky. He grabs a green compost bin and runs towards me. He dumps it out on the floor in front of me and yells “Do you want to swim in the sutures again like you used to!!!??”
Three years of being held against my will brings me to my own rage. I stand up in the circle, feeling bold and brave, and yell “I don’t know what you’re talking about!!”
I wake up….