It all began that night. It was a rigorous night of winter. The rain flooded the deserted street and the wind pushed it against my house. I was on the safety of my living room. I looked at the window and lost myself in my thoughts.
Then, I suddenly was wake up to reality by the sound of(…)the door. I turned back. There he was standing at the door, looking at me with sorrowful eyes. I wanted to ask what was going on, but something inside held me back. I remained silent with my eyes on him(...), thinking of what he wanted. I couldn’t tell if he was crying or if it was only the rain. His hands were trembling. “Come inside” I told him. But he didn’t move immediately. For 5 long seconds we just stared each other. Then he entered. “I need to talk to you. It is about(…) these strange dreams I have been having for the past few weeks" he said
I knew about the dreams even before he had told me but still I asked him "What do you see in those dreams, come sit here and tell me."
He came on a chair nearby, almost on the edge just like his composure, frail and about to break out any second.
I put my hand on his knee, a slight touch, and said, "Tell me what it is, I might be able to help."
He stood up with a bolt, agony danced a wicked dance in his eyes and again I wondered if it was tears or just rain on his face.
"These dreams I have, I see demons who chase me every time I sleep. In every dream they come closer and closer, I have not slept for two nights because I know if I fall asleep this time, They will kill me" his voice balanced on the edge of madness and hysteria.
I knew it, he was having the recurring demon dream, a sign of his age, I smiled and said(...) "They are just dreams".
I didn’t know if I was calming him or calming my self. For the last two days I had the same dreams. I woke up sweating, trembling. In my mind the memory of the dream, but more strongly the memory of the fear, a primal fear that I felt in all cells of my body. I passed the last two days repeating to myself the same 4 words: "They are just dreams, they are just dreams!"
“Jeepers,” I murmured, picturing the 5.5-pound pig hairball in the Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum. It was starting to creep me out, the way Kenneth Mutterback-O’Knuckleton, my ex-husband, was not blinking nearly enough.
“Since that evening everything I eat tastes like salty french fries, even this water here,” Ken said, nodding toward a sippy cup clenched in his trembling wet hands.
The cup was unfamiliar. On the rim was a jagged smear of red. Before thinking, I asked, “What’s that?"
It came out slowly: “Ketchup."
A bomb of thunder exploded on the house and Ken yelped, flinging himself onto my lap. The stern winter rainstorm and his fear were overpowering. So was his weight. The food talk was making me hungry. Enough was enough—it was time to get to the bottom of some mysteries. Over the storm I yelled, “We no longer share the Mutterback-O’Knuckleton name but I know that you trust me. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come.”
He nodded solemnly.
“There is something I must know about the dreams, the fear, the Ronald McDonald. You must be honest with me, Ken. Is it...
Then, I suddenly was wake up to reality by the sound of(…)the door. I turned back. There he was standing at the door, looking at me with sorrowful eyes. I wanted to ask what was going on, but something inside held me back. I remained silent with my eyes on him(...), thinking of what he wanted. I couldn’t tell if he was crying or if it was only the rain. His hands were trembling. “Come inside” I told him. But he didn’t move immediately. For 5 long seconds we just stared each other. Then he entered. “I need to talk to you. It is about(…) these strange dreams I have been having for the past few weeks" he said
I knew about the dreams even before he had told me but still I asked him "What do you see in those dreams, come sit here and tell me."
He came on a chair nearby, almost on the edge just like his composure, frail and about to break out any second.
I put my hand on his knee, a slight touch, and said, "Tell me what it is, I might be able to help."
He stood up with a bolt, agony danced a wicked dance in his eyes and again I wondered if it was tears or just rain on his face.
"These dreams I have, I see demons who chase me every time I sleep. In every dream they come closer and closer, I have not slept for two nights because I know if I fall asleep this time, They will kill me" his voice balanced on the edge of madness and hysteria.
I knew it, he was having the recurring demon dream, a sign of his age, I smiled and said(...) "They are just dreams".
I didn’t know if I was calming him or calming my self. For the last two days I had the same dreams. I woke up sweating, trembling. In my mind the memory of the dream, but more strongly the memory of the fear, a primal fear that I felt in all cells of my body. I passed the last two days repeating to myself the same 4 words: "They are just dreams, they are just dreams!"
“Jeepers,” I murmured, picturing the 5.5-pound pig hairball in the Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum. It was starting to creep me out, the way Kenneth Mutterback-O’Knuckleton, my ex-husband, was not blinking nearly enough.
“Since that evening everything I eat tastes like salty french fries, even this water here,” Ken said, nodding toward a sippy cup clenched in his trembling wet hands.
The cup was unfamiliar. On the rim was a jagged smear of red. Before thinking, I asked, “What’s that?"
It came out slowly: “Ketchup."
A bomb of thunder exploded on the house and Ken yelped, flinging himself onto my lap. The stern winter rainstorm and his fear were overpowering. So was his weight. The food talk was making me hungry. Enough was enough—it was time to get to the bottom of some mysteries. Over the storm I yelled, “We no longer share the Mutterback-O’Knuckleton name but I know that you trust me. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come.”
He nodded solemnly.
“There is something I must know about the dreams, the fear, the Ronald McDonald. You must be honest with me, Ken. Is it...
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