When I was younger I would go into a deep sleep at night, we’re talking the point of no return sometimes.
In these deep sleeps, I would dream. Deep, magical and imaginative dreams as I explore the vast world.
Although magical, they formed reality, the people around my day by day life would travel throughout them like a slipstream of space. They’d visit, sometimes form further friendships, sometimes enemies, but these usually formed what would be darker. I always came back to this long stretch of road, every time, every night.
One night when taking to my bed, I closed my eyes and drifted off. During this luicd dream I seemed to be having, I could create anything, make anything happen. Build, destroy, create, all of it was mine, however it all suddenly ended when I witnessed something.
From the corner of my minds eye, I saw a speckle, a thin painted figure in the distance of this weird and wonderful cityscape I’d built. Curious, I traveled, walking at first then racing off as the figure got bigger, larger in life. I drifted from the cityscape I’d made to a long stretch of road, traveling down to the figure.
Closing in, I soon realised, this wasn’t something I’d made, or was it.
The thin figures developed themselves into bodies, two bodies to be specific. A man and a woman. The woman, thin build, long dress which glistened in the beaming sunlight and golden flowing hair stood over a man, or more so, a body.
The man, sprawled out on the concrete ground, lifeless and bloodied. As I grew closer I stopped. I saw that the woman was stood over him, a knife wielded in her blood soaked hand and himself wounds all over.
Another step closer and a crack formed in the ground, a thunder crack and the face of the woman twisted and looked at me. This didn’t feel like a dream, it felt like a nightmare.
I suddenly awoke, sweat dripping from my face and my body in a soaked mess. I was only a child and I’d witnessed something I shouldn’t.
Through my years I continued to create my dreams of reality, none of which turned to nightmares. My imagination would run wild and I always thought of that past moment to be the same, that nightmare that I could never quite shake. Who was the woman and who was the man.
It was years later, two decades on in my late 30’s when I would realise. The blood soaked knife, the man on the floor and that beautiful dress flowing in the gust. That face, the female face.
It all felt real, too real. Somehow I was standing above the man, two decades on and wielding that same knife. My husband lay on the ground, sprawled in the same position as my nightmare. Then I realised, it was me, it was a premonition all those years before. I was on that road.