Twisted

~3~

I sit up screaming in my bed. Sheets over my body, and I notice him sitting not too far from me. "Dad." I say breathing hard. I'm still can feel the effects of those dreams. The jittery feeling running through my veins.

Still there.

Won't go away.

Nervously I just play with my hair. Something I do in times when I am scared. I just grab a bunch, then twirl the ends. The benefits of having long hair from your crazy head.

"What are you doing in here, Dad?" I finally push through my vocal chords.

"You were having a nightmare. I heard you tossing and turning. Thought I'd come and check on you. I tried waking you up, but you just wouldn't wake."

So I had sleep paralysis. Can't escape the pain. Can't even move. Being forced to take whatever is throw out at you,

Another one of my many fears. Nightmares. Who says the horrors of the day stop right when you close your eyes?

They play over and over. Except distorted and broken up. Made worse to a point of no sanity. I don't like them. If it possible, I would be having nightmares about having nightmares.

My worse one was drilled into my brain. And still hasn't left.

I was forced to see the thoughts were ever I went. Gavin even had me tell him about it. I only wished it would help, but all he did with it was draw the explanations I give to him. He showed them to me once, but all I did was scream.

He got upset and thought he was a failure. So I had to explain that I just was upset at the images. They were just as I imagined! What else was I supposed to do? Throw my arms around him and say I loved them with a lying grin?

I think not.

The dream always starts the same.

Me, walking in the city, walking home from school. The ground begins to tremor. I run, like always. But that ends up failing. I trip (just like in those cheesy horror movies) a shadow crawls up and chews me up.

Then I appear in a casket.

My hopes are quickly diminished when I hope I am dead. But I come to find out, I am in the same coffin as my Mother. We never actually got her body, and never really buried it. Though, I had thoughts of the whole process.

That was always the worst.

Sitting next to her, in the cold and pale flesh.

Just laying on her slowly decaying body.

It woke me up in the middle of the night, and I would just start to weep under my sheets. When I was smaller, Dad would hear me crying and bring me into his bead. Now-a-days he checks in on me, brings me tissues, and sit next to my bed.

I always reject the tissues because I don't mind going back to bed a wreck. I know when I awake again I'll start to ball once more. And another time, another time, and more times until it's time to get up again.

The same routine follows. He makes breakfast, my favorite knowing I was upset. I eat, and start to cry again. Since it's the morning I try to keep my cries silent so Pop could hear his early morning television shows.

He'd rub my back and use the same words every time, "it's okay. Wherever she is, at least she's happy."

But sometimes that would make me even more sad. Thinking about her and her new life all happy. Living perfectly fine. Drinking a refreshing glass of ice cold lemonade while laying pool side of her mansion. Maybe that's a bit far off. It could still happen!