I awoke this morning to the tingling sensation of terror zipping along the highways of my veins, making pitstops only at the furtherest appendages–my toes, my fingers, my nose. I lay there in a panic, my head fuzzy with fear, my arms covered in cold sweat, my fingers clenched into a fist.
The first full minute after I regained consciousness all I could hear was the labored breathing of some poor tortured soul gasping for breath. It sounded painful, it sounded terrifying, it sounded…to be honest, it sounded like me.
I filled my lungs with oxygen and clamped my mouth shut. Sure enough, the tortorous rasping stopped. As I released the air slowly I tried to remember what it was that had put me into such a state of uncontrolled terror.
It had been a dream. A dream in which I was a member of the mob and we were undergoing a regime change. The new kingpin was bloodthirsty, vindictive, and willing to use any means to create an environment where he was thoroughly feared. I had awoken just as he had turned his cruel eyes in my direction.
I shiver as I think of what I would have gone through if I had not awoken at that moment.
Here’s the funny part. I don’t typically read about, talk about, or watch movies about the mafia. Sure, I’ve seen the random TV cop show and heard about them at various times in my life. But not lately. Absolutely nothing lately.
I am one of those silly people who closes my eyes whenever violence erupts onscreen. If I come across it in a book I am reading I simply skip ahead a few pages until I am well past the bloody parts. Yuck!
So the questions is–why the dream?