I had a scary dream.
I was in a car, the driver’s seat. The car was stationery in some kind of parking lot. In front of me a barrier, some bushes.
Someone banged on my window with a fist, aggressive.
I opened the window, regretting it almost immediately.
Outside the car, I could see the figure of a man. He was big, fat, his stomach at my window essentially taking up the entire space.
I don’t know if he said anything, but I suddenly knew he was very angry.
I knew, as sure as I knew my own self, that at any moment his hand was going to come through the window and grab my throat.
I was terrified.
I looked in the rear view mirror and there was another man behind the car.
I wondered if I had enough time to start the car and squeal out backwards, hitting the man behind me, bowling over the man at my window. Enough time before he reached through the open window to encircle my neck with his fingers and throttle me.
But they hadn’t done anything bad yet, even though I knew without a doubt that it was coming. I probably couldn’t justify running over a guy because I was scared.
All this ran through my head in that treacle-slow way that thoughts struggle to work in dreams.
I felt sick, I was so very frightened.
Then I woke up, the feeling of terror high in my chest, holding my breath, trying to let it go, fighting my way up through the nightmare, holding onto the feeling even as the images got swimmy and weak.
I wanted to roll over, curl into someone warm and strong, to rest my mouth against soft skin and breath in the feeling of safety, hear a soft murmer, feel gentle hands petting me.
I carried that feeling around today. Not the terror of the dream, but the desire for somewhere safe where I could let fears dissipate.
Today I felt lonely.