I dream of dying, at least once a week these days. Almost once every 7 days, I dream of death, or dying, or being killed, or killing.
It appalls me, and always fills me with horror.
In one dream, Chris was driving our car down a steep hill. The road was wet, the light was fading, it must have been dusk.
He was in control, steering and driving the car.
I should have said “slow down!” or perhaps I should have said “brake for God’s sake!” or perhaps I could have even shouted “stay on your side of the road”, but I didn’t cry out any of those things, I remained silent, as I knew he wouldn’t listen.
He didn’t listen to me, because I didn’t say anything.
I could have, should have, said something; anything, but instead I sat beside him, white-knuckled, and screaming on the inside, but silent.
The wet, dark road took a slow bend to the left, and the next minute we are crashing through the scrub, smashing through the bush and hurling across treetops, when at once, we are air-borne, flying. I look down, and clearly see the city below us.
Everything is in slow motion now.
The city lights are beginning to come on with dusk, and we are flying through the air, hurtling downwards.
Looking at Chris and grabbing his left wrist, I say “We are never going to survive this! I love you - thanks for the kids!” before closing my eyes to the unfolding horror of the earth rushing upwards to meet us.
I wake with a start, I am barely breathing. It’s as though my body is already in shutdown. I remind myself I am awake, although I don’t believe it myself.
Breathe in, breathe out. I am alive.
But I just don’t believe it myself. I am filled with horror.