“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.
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Mannequin People by Michael J. Stiehl"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Gator by Randall Andrews"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Rude Awakening by Richard Lau"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="136694 by S.F.J. Painter"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>