The Nightmare

It's happening again. Is this the dream or reality?

I can feel his presence in the dark, his shadow an inky stain. His creeping presence in my room is deafening in the silence. I keep my breath even, curled into a ball, trying to pretend to be asleep. Maybe tonight he will just leave. Maybe tonight… no, I feel the sheets being pulled down.

The moment his hand touches my flesh I fall back to my only defence. I go to the only place I know how to survive.

1 times 2 is 2

2 times 2 is 4

3 times 2 is 6…

As always, I look forward to reaching my 7 times table. I have to think about 7 times 8 and 8 times 7. For some reason that doesn't come easily. It's so much easier to keep my mind occupied, to disconnect completely from reality when I've got something that requires a little more effort. Tonight I reach 6 times 9 is 54 when a quiet voice in the back of my head lets me know that I'm alone again. It’s over. I can go to sleep now, muffling tears into my pillow.

It's happening again. Is this the nightmare or the fantasy? I'm lying under my bed. Beside me is a large wooden post that I found in the backyard. It's big enough to be a table leg but all our table legs have been turned and sanded to a comfortable smooth roundness. This piece of wood is just a long square block, the surface rough in my clenched fist. I wonder if I'm getting splinters. I wonder if that's how they'll know it was me… the splinters in my little palms, my little fingers. Again the soul sucking darkness envelops the room as he creeps in. I hold my breath, desperate not to give away where I am hiding.

How long until he realises the hunched shape under the covers is just pillows and scrunched up blankets? Will he just leave once he realises I'm not there? I hear the whisper of slippered feet on carpet as the bad man comes closer to my bed. What if it's not him? What if it's just mum checking in on me?

Without clear thought, I swing the wooden stake in an arc and slam it into his ankles. The grunt that follows does not sound like that of a woman. I let out my breath in a rush of relief. I swing again and again, feeling an odd bubbling joy as the man crashes to the ground. I'm still swinging, enjoying the satisfying vibration up my arm as thud after thud tells me the wood is connecting with flesh.

The heavy stick falls from my hand and the buzzing energy screaming through my brain, drowning everything but the impression of coarse wood in my palm and the jolting kickback after every whack slowly fades away. I'm alone in the dark and everything is silent. I fall into a deep sleep.

It's happening again. Is this fantasy or reality? Today was a day like any other. I woke up in my bed and there was no body on the floor, more's the pity. I went down to get breakfast and my dad, uncle Frank, and my brother Jackson were all sitting at the table. Mum was in the kitchen preparing school lunches. Everything was normal. I wanted to run back to my room and cry with frustration. I felt dirty and angry.  

Someone at that table had come to my bedroom again last night and I still didn't know who. Someone had done unspeakable things to me and I couldn't scream at them, couldn't accuse them because I didn't know who it was. The bad man never speaks. He just does whatever he wants because I’m terrified of him. Sometimes I fight back but he still comes back again and again so I guess I only retaliate in my dreams. I'm only ever truly brave when I'm asleep.

8 times 5 is 40

9 times 5 is 45

I cry myself to sleep again.

It's happening again. I'm lying in my bed, curled up as usual. The slightest click tells me the door has been closed. He's moving towards me. I can't hear him, I can't see him but I know he’s there because he makes my skin crawl. My hand is tucked under the pillow, clenched hard around the smooth metal handle of a small kitchen knife.

As the sheets are pulled down I scream. I scream so loud that I can feel the echoes of it as a physical force bouncing around the walls of my small, pink painted bedroom. The screaming continues, an unhinged, crazed rasping shriek as my small hand remains clenched around the smooth knife handle. I lunge forward and crash into my attacker, weapon in hand. I know I've hurt him. I can hear him groaning with pain as my tiny arm pumps back and forth, side to side, anything, anywhere to hurt him.

The light goes on but I still can't see anything. My eyes register nothing but flashes of white through closed lids, my arm seemingly moving on its own, still slashing, still stabbing.

A voice… my mother's voice floats through the glowing haze. In that instant, all the fight goes out of me and I slump backwards onto the mattress. I crawl into the furthest corner of my bed, huddled in a small ball on my pillow, still clutching the knife, eyes still closed… my body shaking madly. I start to breathe a little easier. I can feel myself calming down a little and I dare open my eyes, even if only a tiny crack to see what I've done.  

Red. Lots and lots of red.

My mother is standing in the doorway, a look of abject horror on her ghostly white face. Is this real or will I wake up to another normal day? Another day of pretending that everything is okay, pretending that a monster doesn't live in my house?

My eyes focus on the faces floating behind my mother's. There's my dad, uncle Frank and… and Jackson, yet lying face down on the bed, covered in blood is a body. I don't understand. A crazed sob tears its way out and I'm crying so hard I can feel my throat being torn apart with every rasping breath. People are moving. Things are happening. I don't care.

I know I'm dreaming. All the men who could be the bad man are standing in the hallway. That just means that tomorrow will come and tomorrow night or maybe the night after, it will all play out again. The nightmare will continue. The lies and the self loathing. The disgust at being looked at, being touched by anyone, anywhere.

I smell mum's skin lotion as her arms wrap around me. It feels so real that I allow myself to relax into the comforting warmth. Maybe I'll sleep better if I pretend this is really happening. Maybe I'll be better able to cope with tomorrow if I can make myself believe that tonight ended with a loving hug in the arms of the one person I still trust in the world.

There’s an indistinct voice out in the hallway. I think it’s my dad and it sounds like he's on the phone. His voice sounds odd. He keeps repeating the same thing over and over. 

"I think he's dead. I think she killed him."

Mum is holding me tight. She's muttering and mumbling into my hair, her voice muffled, hiccuping through her own tears. It feels like forever before I finally piece together what she's saying, over and over again.

"I'm so sorry darling. I had no idea. He used to attack me too, when I was in this bedroom, when I was a little girl.  I never knew who it was and I didn't know he was doing it to you as well. My beautiful baby girl. I'm so sorry I didn't protect you."

I look up at her. Her face is as wet as mine and the front of her simple pale yellow nightdress is soaked with my tears. I reach up and touch the trail of tears running down her cheeks. An odd little voice in my mind tells me this is the first time I've seen my mum cry. I feel a little older, a little braver in that moment. I look at the body on the bed and recognise our neighbour, Mr Thompson. I look back at my mum, eyes fully open, gazing straight into her grey blue eyes, brimming with tears.

"I'm sorry he hurt you too, mumma."

I snuggle up into her chest, barely registering the damp fabric against my wet face. Maybe the nightmare is over after all.