The Prompt: Write About A Dream You Remember
Write about a dream you remember.
Over and over again. I thought it would be gone for good, only to have it reappear a few weeks or sometimes a month later. It always came back .
It was always around. Hiding in the subconscious. Waiting to break through when I least expected it. It always came back.
It was the Euclid house, 409 North. I was probably around 8 or 9 years old.
I hated going to sleep because the dream would come and visit. A lot. Sometimes days in a row. I hated it. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what it meant. I was always scare of it. I was always afraid. It felt so real. I thought I was going to die.
I was running. I was running home as fast as I could. It was chasing me. I was scared and I couldn’t make it to the house.
I don’t even know where I was coming from. I didn’t know where I had been. It was always night time. It was always very dark.
I remember the fear. Would it catch me? Why was it chasing me? What had I done? Would I get away? Would someone come and save me?
I always jumped into the backseat of dad’s 56 Chevy parked in front of the house on the street. It was two-tone green four door. He never locked it, at least in my dream anyway. Every time the dream came back, I hoped the car would be there and I hoped the car would be unlocked. And every single time it was.
Every time, in every single dream it’s the same story. I open the back door. Every time I laid down in the back on the floor and every time I pretended I was already dead.
I tried not to breathe. I tried not to shake. The fear. It was real. Everything seemed so real. I didn’t see anything or hear anything. Maybe I fooled him, I thought. Maybe he was gone. Maybe he went right on past the car and up the street. The thing was hideous. I was so afraid and I could never figure out why a werewolf would be chasing me.
I thought I was safe. I felt like I was in the car for hours and hours. I was going to get up, but I heard it. I heard the breathing. I heard the fingernails on the door handle. I told myself to be still. I told myself not to breathe.
I heard the squeak of the door. It was opening. He was coming. He was coming to kill me.
I felt him. He put his hand under my nose. It was furry and tickle-y. I kept still. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move a muscle. I was so afraid. I didn’t know if he would realize I was still alive.
And then I woke up.