Talking with Him

The nightmares didn't start until I returned home. It was a long, hot summer spent at a sleep away camp. My parents thought it would be good for me to be away from them for the summer, but it was an experience that I never wanted. And now safely behind these four walls of my bedroom, I found no sanctuary here, and even at an age of nine, I knew something was wrong. But the terror waited until I shut my eyes.

My dreams became dark. I raced across broken streets, struggling to survive. I found myself held prisoner in small rooms with boarded windows and locked doors. My captors were bent on taking my life, and if I escaped, could I outrun the bloodthirsty mob that chased me down? Missing posters of me fluttered in a cold wind, and chaos reigned the cities. And I begged for day, always waking in a pool of sweat.

I tried to chase these nightmares away. I curled up in a sleeping bag on my parents' floor. My father didn't understand, but my mother urged him to let me stay those nights. But his patience ran out. Soon I was forced back into my room, alone, and I tried to sneak back in. One morning, he awoke for work and stepped out of bed, crushing the nails of my last, little toes, and that was the end of that.

I became a basket case at school. My peers hated me, and the bullies grew in numbers. There were even one or two teachers, who gave me a hard time. There was no escape from my days in hell or nights spent in endless terror, and I fell further into despair. But nobody knew of my suffering, and I was fading into a growing abyss, waiting for the day, where I would never awake again.

My fingers curled together. My body shook with fear. Harsh tears stung my eyes. Sobs choked me in thought. I was drowning, and I needed someone to save me. So, I started to pray. I never gave religion much thought, but if He existed, would He save me?

The nightmares began to lessen their hold on me. They refused to end, and some nights despite my prayers, they remained frightening. But there were other nights, where I slept in sweet, black oblivion and finally awoke without the cool dew of sweat lingering upon my skin, so I began to pray every night before I dreamt. My brief prayers unfolded into words left unspoken for those around me, and the stone in my heart began to crack. And I held onto Him, urging life back into my strength, and my legs finally stopped shaking. And I was able to get through the hard years that followed, but I remained alone. But I didn't care as long as He remained by my side, listening to every word I cried.

Those nightmares are far behind me now. Only in sickness or fear do they dare return again, and I draw from that strength, ending them quickly before the terror can begin. But a few times, I still fall victim, but I don't stop praying. I continue to talk to Him every night before sleep takes me, and sometimes, I wonder. Does He still hear me? I like to think so for little signs tell me yes, or I am just seeing things. But I don't care because He knows that every night I will be there, waiting to talk to Him.