I had the worst dream of my life last night. The worst. That might be a bold statement, but unlike Fiona Apple, I do go to sleep to dream. My dreams are always pleasant and colorful and I usually find myself holding someone's hand or folded into their arms while our silly friends do silly things around us.

Last night though, my eyes fluttered open and the sight of the four walls of my bedroom brought me no comfort. If my roommate had been home, I would have taken my Kermit and knocked on her bedroom door and asked to sleep in her room. Actually, I probably wouldn't have, because we're not close like that yet. I thought about calling or texting one of my friends who lived near by, just to make contact with the outside world, that maybe a dose of reality would shake the lingering images from my mind, but would I say? "I had a nightmare. I'm really scared. But don't be freaked out since I'm calling/texting you in the middle of the night." If they answered at all, I'm sure it would be an uncomfortable conversation, and if they didn't explaining a text like that would be even more uncomfortable the next morning. So instead I just laid there, not moving, making sure all of my body parts were under the blanket, because the boogeyman can't get you when you're under the blanket. That's a well-known fact.

I don't want to write my dream down, because by putting it into words, fleshing out the little details that probably didn't really happen in the dream, but that the mind needs in order to turn it into a cognizant story, it will be even scarier. It was more of a movie dream, where I was just watching everything that was happening, I didn't know any of the characters, and I was not participating in the terrible, terrible thing that was happening. But then, close to the end, when I was still dreaming, but so afraid of what my subconcious was bringing forth, I went to get help.

There was a bus station in this tiny country town where this terrible thing was happening, and I walked into the station, through the terminal and into the dingy diner where people were smoking their cigarettes and eating their hashbrowns, waiting for their Greyhound to take them to whatever place in the U.S. of A. that they could not afford to fly to. I stopped one of the waiters and tried to explain that something was happening just down at the edge of town by that old abandoned barn, and instead of rushing to call the police or alerting the villagers that something was awry, he looked at me suspiciously and asked why I wasn't doing anything to stop what was happening. In my dream I paused, standing in front of the table he was waiting on, a family with cranky children , and said,

"I'm the narrator. I made this happen. Now I need help to make it stop."