(I'm trying to reconstruct this dream fifteen years after the fact from some minimally scribbled notes I found in a box the other day.)
I was a robot and I'd gone "frankenstein"-- I was rogue, out of control, and hostile. I had a ballpoint pen that concealed a small rifle. I was being hunted through a hospital; apparently, I had a wife and she was wounded and was being treated there. I don't know if I was hunting her or protecting her. Someone shot me through the knees with a double bullet-- a .308 coupled with a .44, one round propelling the other somehow. My abdomen also got blown out. My gun apparently didn't go off, and the person who killed me stood over me saying, "That's what happens when you make your own weapons."