I don't think I was an active character in this dream, but I at least witnessed this incident in some way. I was at a county fair, one that had set up those rickety portable rides. I was watching a ride that consists of one large bench that spins around in a vertical circle, which was wussy enough for the very small children riding it.
There were four kids on the ride. They were all wearing harnesses and helmets. The children were also all under age 2. They squealed with joy whenever the ride would swing downwards. You know the sound; most kids love to scream whenever they're having fun. Then, the bench began to sway. It looked like the ride was intended to move in this direction, so none of the parents watching became concerned. Suddenly, the ride came to a grinding halt in an upwards swing, and flung the four children out of their harnesses, very high into the air.
They knew the ride shouldn't have ejected them; they realized their lives were coming to an abrupt end. The instant they left their seats, their screams changed from the joyful squeals to high-pitched, blood-curdling shrieks. I will never, ever forget that sound. It was physically painful to hear; it felt like knives penetrating my abdomen.
I watched them soar over my head and onto the pavement. They hit so hard, I was surprised they didn't splatter. One or two of them was still alive, but they wouldn't be for long.
Their parents immediately ran to their dying children. At that point, I noticed that each child had been of a different race. The child nearest me was black. His father was a well-mannered businessman, dressed in slacks and a tie. He picked his child up while he was still alive. The child was in no pain, and could speak slightly. His father chose just to talk to him during his last minutes of life; he held an almost casual, but happy conversation about how everything in this world was beautiful, so his child's last thoughts would be as peaceful as possible. I was amazed by how well he handled himself; I figured anyone in that situation would have been yelling something like "WHY GOD, WHY?!" which would have filled the child with fear, and would have failed to prevent the inevitable. After the child passed, the man hung his head and sobbed quietly.
The second child had been Hispanic, and his parents reacted exactly as I had imagined anyone would. Their kid had died on impact, causing the parents to go hysterical. They were running around in circles, grabbing at the clothes of strangers, bellowing pleas in Spanish that no one could understand. The parents didn't bother to pick their child's body up from where it landed. They inspected it long enough to recognize it was their child, and it was lifeless. After that, they seemed to be unable to face the reality. They ran away from the body, and I assume, wanted to pretend that it had never happened.
The third child was Asian. I never saw even a glimpse of the child because its parents huddled around the body, completely concealing it. They knelt down over the body, with their heads bowed. They did not speak. They did not cry. They did not move. The world around them was breaking into chaos, and they remained statues.
The last child was white. His parents were a typical couple you would find at a county fair: nice and trashy. The mother was in her thirties, but had physically aged far beyond her years. She sat on the pavement and held her child in her arms, not screaming, but shaking violently. Her husband was patting her on the back, in attempts to comfort her. The mother was shaking and muttering, and was so distraught, she pulled out a needle and started shooting heroin on the spot.
After I saw that lovely bit of imagery, I woke up. I've been a bit disturbed ever since.