The Time A Child Sociopath Almost Killed Me

Last night I dreamt that I was a teenager living in San José with my family. We went to stake conference, and a couple rows ahead of us were three brothers—ages twelve, ten, and six—whose parents had recently died horribly. The ten-year-old was also in a wheelchair, and his left hand was all shriveled, like a skeleton hand with bumpy skin barely stretched over it.
"That kid's hand was burnt in a house fire," my mom whispered to me. I looked at him and at the faces of all of the kids in that omniscient way you can in a dream. The twelve-year-old had dark floppy hair and was wearing a black jacket and smirking with his arms crossed. The ten-year-old was fat with rosy cheeks and just stared adoringly at his older brother. The six-year-old was dressed in ratty clothes and also staring adoringly at the oldest brother.

Suddenly, I realized what happened to the ten-year-old's hand and his legs. I snapped back to where I was sitting next to my mom. "It wasn't an accident—his brother made him stick his hand in the fire," I whispered.

"You mean he dared him to?"

I was treated to a lovely mental picture of how it went down. "No, he grabbed his arm and held it in the fire while he screamed. His brother broke his legs too. He still worships his brother, though."

I don't know exactly what happened, but I think my mom didn't believe me, and that's why next I realized that my mom had felt sorry for the three orphaned boys and invited them over for dinner.
So there we were, my family, the devil child, and his henchmen, passing salad around while he just glared at us through his floppy hair. Then something happened that made me remember that I am a mandatory reporter, so I excused myself and went to my parents' room where there was a phone. My dad followed me in. "I have to call CPS," I said, "but I can't remember the number. It's something cute like 1-800-safe-child." (Note to self in real life: Find actual CPS number and rememorize. Addendum to note: It's 1-866-endharm, not as memorable as it could be.)

My dad got out a phone book, looked it up, and started dialing. It rang once. "Wait," I said, pressing and holding the button near the earpiece, "that kid [the ten-year-old] is in imminent danger. We should call 9-1-1." Suddenly we were in the living room with a cordless phone having this conversation, and the boys were staring at us malevolently. The ten-year-old also wasn't in a wheelchair anymore. Then they left.

"Stop them!" I said. "No, wait, that could be dangerous. We'll just call the police, and they can catch up with them."

My dad dialed 9-1-1, but as soon as the operator picked up, the boys were back in the house carrying large bottles covered in brown paper. My dad hung up the phone. You should have at least said, "Help!" before you hung up! I thought. Now one police officer is going to make his leisurely way here, and he'll be no match for the psycho child. I tried to go back in the dream to change what happened with 9-1-1, but the dream was not obliging.

My sister and I ran for the front door, but the six-year-old was there. He had a knife and somehow scared us so much that we stopped in the entryway. Just knock him over! I thought to myself. No, a police officer will be here any minute, and the last thing I need is for the kid to say I hit him. The kid opened his bottle and splashed gasoline over us. Doesn't my dad have a bunch of guns? I desperately tried to imagine a way out. No, the sparks might set off the gasoline, and it would also be hard to justify shooting a child to people who don't know that one of them is a complete psycho trying to kill us! (And that's how Treyvon Martin's murder influenced my dream. I suck.)

We'll just pretend that girl's not in the picture, 'kay?

All three of the boys closed in on us, and then I woke up.