Recurring Dream

The dream again. My childhood home. Early 80's construction. Single family home. Marble foyer. Furniture reminiscent of the 70s: Tan with a brown and orange floral pattern. Wood paneled walls opposite a wall of windows.

I am at the front door peering out the open door at the quiet street beyond; sensing something foreboding. 

I race through the living room, the kitchen, the utility, to the back door. 

Lock the screen door. 

Bolt the inner door. 

Peer cautiously out the window at the back yard. 

The garage. 

The garage door is open. 

I undo my work, race across the narrow path, bolt and lock the door after verifying the garage door is shut. 

I peek over the gate down the drive to see if someone is coming. No one. Just cars. 

Too many cars. 

I bolt inside and repair the damage done to the back door. In my haste, I tore the screen. 

I fumble with the lock. As I hear it click, I realize I do not remember locking the front door. I race back through the house. The door is open wide. I step out onto the porch. No one is there. 

I bolt back inside and lock and dead bolt the door. I back away while squinting to see through the decorative glass. 

I turn and stare at the living room. All is right but not right somehow. I step off the marble entryway onto aged brown carpet. I tiptoe to my room. My windows are locked. I draw back the heavy window panels so no light shines through. Satisfied, I leave the room, drawing closed the heavy wooden French doors. 

I tiptoe past the fireplace and built in book case where my parents display knick knacks and inherited antiques. 

To my parents' room. 

To check the glass sliding doors to be sure they are locked. 

To be sure the curtain is drawn, the bar drawn tightly across so they cannot be slid open at all. 

The room is dark now. Faint light shines in from the living room. 

I step into their bathroom. There is only one window. The same I broke through once when I forgot my key. It looks out at the backyard, across to the fence where I think I see movement. I know if I must escape an attack from the front, I could go through this window, over the fence, and into another neighborhood. From there: I do not know. To the gas station at the end of the neighborhood on the main road? Who would help me?

I trace my steps back through the house checking locks, window coverings. My vulnerabilities: Do I have the keys? Can anyone get through the back windows? They are locked, but not covered. Am I alone here? 

I make my way down the furthest hall to my brother's and sister's rooms. His is very well defended. Dark, closed off, facing the neighbor's house. I could escape theough here if need be. 

My sister's room faces the front of the house, offers me visibility. Not safe to stay. Only to prepare myself. But I could hide in her closet. It is deep, dark, and cluttered. Good for disappearing. If I need to. 

This is the basis of one of the recurring dreams I had in my teens and twenties. They ended in various, bizarre ways. 

Once, there came a flood and there was no escape, hiding place, or gas station attendant who could possibly save me. I prayed my house would become a lifeboat. It did not. 

Sometimes, they came for me through the front door and I escaped but got lost in the next neighborhood, could not climb the fence, was ignored by the gas station attendant, or it was abandoned or closed. 

Sometimes, my dog was in the back yard staring at me through the windows with fiery red, glowing eyes. I felt terror.

Sometimes, I escaped through the back but could not find car keys, or I could, but there were so many cars. I could not find the right order. I could not get one out past the others. If I did successfully pull a car out of the drive, I got lost in the labyrinthine neighborhood. The streets and houses all seemed foreign to me.   

The last dream of this series: 
I voluntarily opened the front door and hesitantly made my way down the walk to the mailbox where my mother was waiting in her nightgown. She glared at me disapprovingly, and I screamed, cried, begged, and hated her with the fury and passion only a child can feel. 

I woke up screaming. It was the first and last time that has happened in my life to date. 

I was 29 years old. I have not had that particular recurring dream since.