Nana and Cleo

This house was one I had never been to before. It had aspects of the old house I had grown up in, and other details of it reminded me of my current home. Everything was white in this house. There were couches and tables and walls, all white.

She came down the hallway then. She, who inflicted many months of forboding and anxiety upon me and my family. She stepped in with her usual air of haughtiness and arrogance, a cigarette between her crystal-meth ruined lips.

The usual police swarmed in then, onto her, attempting the arrest they had failed so many times before. She became afraid and ran back into her room down the hallway, completly gone.

An officer turned to me, an angry look on his face. He took a threatening step toward me, as if he wished to harm me for their own repeated failure. I wanted to scream "Get away!" and run, but here I could not speak or move.

The officer suddenly molted into a horrible red color, and dark shapes swam underneath his skin. Sharp object tore through that flesh, and for some reason he did not bleed. The things stayed lodged in his skin from the inside. He staggared, making pained noises. He fell back into an office chair, limp and dead.

I still could not move.

Another officer's head suddenly exploded, his brains and blood covering the walls. The last two shot eachother.

And still she hid behind that wooden door.

Outside, there was a quiet rumble of a car. I bolted to the door, miraculously able to move now. In the driveway there sat a red sportscar, it's brand eludes me. In the driver's seat sat my grandmother, my Nana, waving her arms, calling out to me, telling me to get in. So I did.

I was so happy to see her. I had not spoken to her in so many years.

There is something amiss here. This echoed in my head, but I ignored it. I was talking to me beloved Nana for the first time in a long time!

A small mewing came at me from the back seat as Nana drove away from the blank house, and I looked back. I was overjoyed to see me cat Cleo sitting there, happy as can be. I took her soft black mass into my lap and patted her, chatting idly with my Nana.

The dream ends, and I find myself overcome with sadness because this could never happen. I could never talk to my grandmother again; she had died three years ago on Christmas Eve. And I could never pet my cat Cleo ever again; she had died nearly a year ago now.

Why does my mind taunt me like this with ideal situations that could never happen ever again?

I should have taken the fact that she, who inflicted many months of forboding and anxiety upon me and my family, was even in my dream as a bad premonition.

But a sleeper's mind does not have to adhere to logic.