A Story About Nightmares

I’m thrashing and straining, screaming and convulsing, sobbing, slamming my head against my pillow.

Meanwhile, my body lies motionless in the dark room. The shadow moves closer. Only my eyes can move, though it feels like the blood vessels should be popping from how hard I am pushing with every muscle in my body to escape.

The shadow moves again, another step closer. I might not have even noticed, if it weren’t for the glint of a knife.

I scream for God. I scream for my mom. I scream for help. I scream until something breaks in my throat and it’s just air that I force out of my lungs.

I have not made a single sound. The shadow moves closer, right up to my bed.

I throw myself away from it. I try so hard to do it. My body, cold without its blanket, does not move a muscle.

The knife reflects the light from my charging phone as the shadow raises it over my chest.

I whimper soundlessly.

It plunges the knife into my chest in one fluid movement. I squeeze my eyes shut at the last second.

My eyes snap open.

My room is dark and quiet.

I move my finger just a little. It obeys. I bring my hands to my chest, the aching memory of pain throbs with a few heartbeats before melting away.

Real tears stream from my eyes and soak into my pillow.

I hold my breath and look around my room. The air comes out in a torrent, ending in a shaky, uneasy laugh.

The shadows are just shadows.

I go back to sleep.

The shadow in the closet holds the knife behind its back. Its dark mouth curls into a small smile.