i dreamt of him last night, dreamed anger and violation and fear. i was trapped in rooms, in tunnels, in the shower with his eyes over the curtain. i ran down secret hallways towards freedom and was caught from behind. i dreamed a trial and a restraining order, a door with a broken padlock. i dreamed that i slept and woke to his hands around my throat, his face looming huge and tear-stained above me, and then i did wake, coughing and coughing and coughing until i had no air left, until i fell back against the pillows and searched my half-dark room over and over with my eyes. but i was alone.


for a while, the only nightmare i had was this one, repeating, reoccuring, sometimes with faces, sometimes without, but never really changing. i would know i was dreaming, know what came next, could anticipate the heft of the cleaver in my hands, but couldn't change anything. couldn't wake up until i'd bathed in blood and pulled the final blade across the final skin, never sure if it was mine.


mornings have been heavy these days, and the first sip of tea always surprises me, something strange and clear. it would be nice to have someone to roll over into in the mornings, to distract myself from the aftertaste of death.