When I was really little, my Aunt and Uncle took in a foster kid. He was much older than me. He was severely abused - so badly his growth was stunted - and he was very disturbed. Despite the abuse at home, when he turned 18, he made the choice to go back to his biological family.
One night, I had a bad dream that he broke into our house and was trying to kill my family. I was the only one awake, and had to chase him out of the house. It's been almost thirty years, but I still remember a couple of parts of the dream. There's a big hole in the middle, though.
I find him coming up the stairs to our bedrooms, and I know he means to kill us all in our sleep. He is surprised to see me awake.
I see him running up the stairs, and I grab my brother's baseball bat.
* * * * *
We are in the kitchen. My brother and my Mom are there, too. They are off to the side, watching. The foster kid has a gun. He shoots at me, but instead of a bullet hitting me, I am hit in the cheek by a bunch of little rubber pellets. I turn and scream at him to get out, and he looks scared. I scream it again, and he looks really spooked. I start stomping toward him, and he backs out the open door. He changes his mind when he gets outside, though, and grabs it. I slam it shut on his thumb, and lean on it to force it shut, even though he still outweighs me a little. I hear the bone in his thumb break, and he goes from trying to get in to trying to pull his thumb out of the door.
That is when I woke, but not the end of the story.
That morning, I heard my brother tell Mom he had "bad dreams" the night before. He thought that someone had tried to break into the house. I said I'd dreamed the same thing, and told them who. Mom shivered and looked at me wide-eyed when I said it, and asked if us both if we'd been up in the night. We nagged her until she admitted that she had been up, because after a nightmare about a burglar breaking in, she had gone downstairs and found the door open.
Even that is not the end, though.
On the floor in the kitchen, I found rubber pellets like the ones that hit me in the dream. On the door frame, just above the latch, I found what looked like dried blood. My Dad insisted that it was rust, but it was right where his thumb had been. Then, we discovered the soda bottles we'd been saving to recycle were gone. Someone had taken them. After checking, we found a few more small items taken from the garage.
A couple of weeks later, Dad caught the foster kid stealing more items from our garage. Apparently, he had to prove his loyalty to his "real" family by showing them that he'd stolen stuff from his foster family, and since my Uncle and Aunt lived across town, he hit our house instead. I was sent out of the room for the rest of that discussion.
After that, we never saw the foster kid again.
How aware are we of our loved ones' thoughts and feelings? Did my family share a common dream because we picked up on the presence of a familiar person in the house, or was it just one of us, and then the others picked up on that person? It could be that. Before he left, I was close to the foster kid. Though he was chronologically much older than me, mentally we were the same age.
Was my dream really a dream? Maybe he really saw me in the kitchen. Maybe I scared him away.
Or... maybe it was all just coincidence. Did three of the four people in the house all have similar dreams on a night when the thing we dreamed about really happened... all just by chance?
One night, I had a bad dream that he broke into our house and was trying to kill my family. I was the only one awake, and had to chase him out of the house. It's been almost thirty years, but I still remember a couple of parts of the dream. There's a big hole in the middle, though.
I find him coming up the stairs to our bedrooms, and I know he means to kill us all in our sleep. He is surprised to see me awake.
I see him running up the stairs, and I grab my brother's baseball bat.
* * * * *
We are in the kitchen. My brother and my Mom are there, too. They are off to the side, watching. The foster kid has a gun. He shoots at me, but instead of a bullet hitting me, I am hit in the cheek by a bunch of little rubber pellets. I turn and scream at him to get out, and he looks scared. I scream it again, and he looks really spooked. I start stomping toward him, and he backs out the open door. He changes his mind when he gets outside, though, and grabs it. I slam it shut on his thumb, and lean on it to force it shut, even though he still outweighs me a little. I hear the bone in his thumb break, and he goes from trying to get in to trying to pull his thumb out of the door.
That is when I woke, but not the end of the story.
That morning, I heard my brother tell Mom he had "bad dreams" the night before. He thought that someone had tried to break into the house. I said I'd dreamed the same thing, and told them who. Mom shivered and looked at me wide-eyed when I said it, and asked if us both if we'd been up in the night. We nagged her until she admitted that she had been up, because after a nightmare about a burglar breaking in, she had gone downstairs and found the door open.
Even that is not the end, though.
On the floor in the kitchen, I found rubber pellets like the ones that hit me in the dream. On the door frame, just above the latch, I found what looked like dried blood. My Dad insisted that it was rust, but it was right where his thumb had been. Then, we discovered the soda bottles we'd been saving to recycle were gone. Someone had taken them. After checking, we found a few more small items taken from the garage.
A couple of weeks later, Dad caught the foster kid stealing more items from our garage. Apparently, he had to prove his loyalty to his "real" family by showing them that he'd stolen stuff from his foster family, and since my Uncle and Aunt lived across town, he hit our house instead. I was sent out of the room for the rest of that discussion.
After that, we never saw the foster kid again.
How aware are we of our loved ones' thoughts and feelings? Did my family share a common dream because we picked up on the presence of a familiar person in the house, or was it just one of us, and then the others picked up on that person? It could be that. Before he left, I was close to the foster kid. Though he was chronologically much older than me, mentally we were the same age.
Was my dream really a dream? Maybe he really saw me in the kitchen. Maybe I scared him away.
Or... maybe it was all just coincidence. Did three of the four people in the house all have similar dreams on a night when the thing we dreamed about really happened... all just by chance?
No comments:
Post a Comment