My legs were tangled in the sheets – I couldn’t run. And a weight pressed my chest keeping me pinned down.
I needed to get out away.
But the scream choked off in my throat as slowly the dream cleared and I realised I was trapped by an affectionate nocturnal visit from Boy Three, who was snoring obliviously.
I gasped. The inky horrors of my nightmare receded when I focused on the glowing numerals of the clock and my heart beat slowed. But the fear lingered like a fishy smell.
What had prompted such a dreadful wakening this time?
I’m sure I’m not alone in having an varied and alarming range of anxiety nightmares – I can’t find the kids, I can’t remember what the kids look like, the car won’t go, the car won’t start, they find me out, they find me out and let me make a huge fool of myself, they don’t find me out but I let the cat out of the bag anyway, and so on.
Last night’s was special though. I call it Nightmare on Immac Street.
First I think I’m doing great – speaking in public, making sense and not tripping over. Then I realise that all the time they were looking I had hundreds of thick, black hairs all over my face.
You know the kind – the ones that seem to appear overnight at an inch long and you wonder why no one said.
Only this time, they’re everywhere, I’m trapped in a room with no private place, no mirror and no tweezers.
People are looking at me and nodding, only I know they’re staring at my chin and its bristles. I can feel the whiskers pushing through my skin towards the transfixed crowd… They can’t stop staring and I can’t escape…
And I wake – not daring to touch my face to see if it was true or not.
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| Hair-raising pic: Hidden Eloise |