Last night I meditated and went to sleep with a sphere of rose quartz in my hands, but nothing helped…
The man stands at our front door, silhouetted by the brightness of the surrounding snow. I peek around the corner, sensing danger, and hoping that the lock stays. I see the door knob begin to turn. Someone has left it unlocked. I scramble to the door and hold it tightly against the man, trying to turn the lock. Usually I fail at such attempts. In most of my dreams the simple act of turning a lock turns into an elaborate and complicated process that involves far too much coordination and time to ever accomplish with ease, but for this one moment it works. He grows more frustrated, and begins shaking with rage. It is then that I see the knife in his hand, not shiny or gleaming, but dark and cloaked by his sleeve. A sharpness concealed in the folds of fabric. He pounds on the glass pane of the outer door.
Black blood smears on the glass, black instead of red because my dreams rarely come in color, yet the inner-door remains inviolate, and I realize the blood is not mine. That is but small comfort when the man’s bloody hands continue to try to pry their way in. I call out to Andy to help, but no sound comes out. I can’t decide if I should continue holding the door shut in case he manages to work the lock, or to run to the back door and escape through the back-yard. I don’t need to debate for very long: the man lunges and breaks through everything.
It is not the attacker, it is Andy who has entered the room, which is now my bedroom, and I finally wake up with the shout I’d been trying to muster for what seems like an entire night.
“You need to get on medication,” Andy says sternly. There is no love in his voice. “I just woke you from one dream and you went into another.”
A husband who is fed up – another lonely day about to begin – and a powerlessness that is crippling.
I don’t remember the first dream…
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