I had the nightmare again. You know the one. The sounds of break-in violation, shattering glass, disrespecting home and hearth. Your voice, slurred by alcohol, mania, and tears screams it cannot be over. You'll not allow it. My proclamation of done and over does not apply to you. I can almost hear Queensryche in the background;
"You're through with me?
I'm not through with you!
We've had what others
might call love..."
This time, I'm able to grab your arm before you grab the glass shard. This time, my father is there instead of the constabulary placing me in manacles, demanding to know what the fuck is going on. I tell him and he scowls. He tells you if he ever sees you again he'll shoot you. Twice. Three times would be excessive.
You scream obscenities at me. Saying things about my daughter and the memories of my mother and grandmother. Things meant to hurt. Things spoken from a sewer water tongue when one is not getting their way.
My eyes open to darkness. The small hours. I'm soaked in sweat. It takes me a bit to realize I'm years and miles away from that night, which still haunts me so. I look over at the clock and chuckle ruefully that it's closing time at the juke joints. About the same time you'd try phoning repeatedly after the incident, begging for my forgiveness, hoping I'd forget that I've never believed in such a thing. After all, if to forgive is Divine, there'd be no Hell. I never answered those calls, and the voicemails went from pleas of forgiveness to gin and tonic and anti-psychotics laced rants of venomous hate. I curse my memory when those words once more enter the mathematics of my thoughts.
I try to close my eyes and sleep again, I have obligations in a few hours and I could use the rest. It's a futile effort; the image of your feral contorted face and the things you said-both remembered and dreamt-strobe through my skull. I know the truth; I'm not sleeping again.
I had the nightmare again. You know the one. You fucking gave it to me.