“And the dreams?” the psychiatrist asks.
“Stopped,” I lie, won’t admit the rain still brings them on. Worse than ever.
I drive home, wipers dancing.
Cooking makes me feel better; a romantic meal for one. Italian. Plenty of wine. I go to bed feeling relaxed.
Dream.
I wake, soaked and shivering.
In my dream, a monster entered a random family’s home. Tore the children apart first.
Shredded Mum as she tried to reach them. Took a bullet, didn’t stop. Ripped Daddy asunder.
Rising, whimpering and sore, I see the blood-streaked monster at the bare first-floor window: Scream.
At my reflection.
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