Nightmares...

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

So, it's 5 am.

Outside it's dark, and the only light comes from the dull orange glow of the street lights. They make everything seem dirty somehow, creeping in around the edges of the curtains, and under the door, spilling across the door mat like a tide.

Beside me Lennie is sleeping. He sleeps deeply and peacefully, thank god. God, I never thought I'd be grateful to just hear him snoring. For the last three weeks I've been waking up alone, sick scared that I should be getting used to it, terrified that he was never coming back. But now he's here, and he's alive.

The bad dreams won't stop though.

The dreams started when he was away. Well, they always do. I lived through his death over and over again. I saw him die, I found him dead, I stood by our daughter at his funeral. I woke up, and didn't know whether I wanted to feel relieved at the fact that he wasn't actually dead, or cry because he was still missing and that part wasn't a bad dream. At times the dreams escalated. I dreamt that I was looking for Holly, that she was missing too. Whilst I slept I ran through the streets of London, I beat against locked doors, and I screamed for my child.

Tonight the dreams were worse than ever. In my dreams I stood at Lennie's funeral, and when I looked around for the people I love, I realized I was on my own. And then, with that kind of sickness that comes with memory, I remembered that they were dead. Every one. I remembered seeing Isabelle's body lying in a police morgue. I remembered the odd smell of burnt meat hanging over Raph's car. I remembered Jonah's body, lying in a pile of broken glass in that great big house that couldn't protect him.

I remembered how small Holly looked when I held her, cold and stiff.

Jesus, it was horrible.

At first, I didn't realize it was a dream. I woke up, and didn't know who the hell was in my bed. It wasn't Lennie. It couldn't be Lennie. He was dead. I'd buried him. What had I done?

Reality seeped back in with the lamplight from the pavement.

I was safe. I was in the winnebago, with Lennie asleep beside me, and Holly shifting restlessly along the hall. Rusty was at home. God knows where Raph was, but the odds were high that the worst thing he'd be doing was fighting with Horatio over Isabelle. Jonah was with Kay (and that thought, it turns out, hurts a hell of a lot less than the thought of him being dead.)

It was just a dream.

But I couldn't sleep. I got out of bed, and came out and sat on the steps of the winnebago for a while, staring out at the silent streets. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. It wasn't just the dreams. It was everything. A thousand thoughts swirled around my mind. I didn't want to let any of them take shape.

I love my family. OK, not just my family. I love my family, and I love those I have chosen to make my family. I love them like nothing on this earth. When they hurt, I bleed. I'd die for any of them in a moment. And the thought of living without them...

The sickness rose up again in my stomach at the very thought.

So how come I couldn't keep everyone together? I couldn't stop Raphael and Isabelle from fighting. And when they stopped fighting, I couldn't stop Horatio from being an immeasurable prick about the fact that they weren't fighting. I couldn't make things right with Jonah, stop all the same stupid reactions to him I've had since I was a kid, for long enough to make things right with him and everyone else. I couldn't protect Rusty from his demons, couldn't...

"Stop it, Rio," I said, out loud. "Self flagellation is pretty bloody pathetic. Just stop it."

I didn't stop it entirely. The whirling emotions still kept running round in my head. But I stopped giving them shape and form, and went back inside.

Now it's 5 am. I'm in bed with my husband, who I do love, even if I can't shift a childhood dream from my mind. I'm with my family, with Holly and Lennie. I'm going to go back to sleep, and it's going to be OK this time. In the morning I'll get up and see the sunlight, and all the crap that swirls around at 5 am will be gone.

Lennie half wakes up, and reaches for me. I wrap my arms around him and kiss him.

"I'm here," I see. "I've not gone anywhere. Go back to sleep, old man. Get your rest."

He grumbles about being called old, but rolls over contentedly enough, and I settle down beside him, letting the rumble from the passing cars soothe me.

I'll sleep soon enough. And tomorrow, I tell myself, will be another day.