• The world was the color of burning embers. Except for the sky; a sodden color only found in ash. Ashen clouds fought with the embers over who would consume the most space. A simple gun shot fired, sending a few more scattered clouds in the air. No. The one word seemed louder than the shot. It rang through my ears.
    The simple sound of the small girl’s cry was enough to make me shoot up out of the nightmare. A scream almost escaped my lips. I rubbed my eyes. 1:07 am. This constant nightmare just wouldn’t leave would it? Why did I have to have the nightmares? Why was it me who had to endure the torture filled nights that would make a person scream and beg for mercy? What did I ever do to deserve this? I ran my fingers back through my croppy hair. I grabbed the St. Michael medallion and held in between my black tipped fingers.
    “I thought you were supposed to protect me!” I whispered harshly. I sighed, I was yelling at a piece of medal. This was the type of moment when my mother would have walked in and told me one thing. To pray the names of the angels over my resting place.
    I always did that as she told me to. Every time a horrible dream woke me up, I was to do that. Other times, however, I was told to quietly sing a song. The song never made me feel better.
    The night before my mother died she walked into my room, after another nightmare incident, she walked in and sang the song. She only knew the main verse.
    And He will raise you up on eagle’s wings.
    Bear you on the breath of dawn.
    Make you to shine like the sun.
    And hold you in the palm of His hand.
    It rendered such a melancholy tone that it made me shudder. But surprisingly, not on that particular night. Nor any night after that as well. It helped me get through her death, knowing she was in good hands, shining like the sun.
    I knelt down, prayed the angels’ names, and quietly hummed the slow simple tune. My mother sang it better, hitting the notes so they weren’t too quiet or too loud.
    I couldn’t force myself to lay back down, knowing the dream would return. I felt alone, being probably the only person who knew of this kind of suffering.
    I truly missed dreaming. Dreaming my own dreams, and not some frightening scene from a horror movie. I missed dreaming of myself in white dresses; silver flowers flowing in my hair. Just lying there in a field of green grass, the sky cloudless. A beautiful dream.
    But now, instead of green grass or clear skies, I dreamt of fire. I dreamt of smoke. I dreamt of gun shots. And I dreamt of the desperate cry of a little girl. A terrible, endless, aching, dream.
    The worst part was. The dream was just beginning.