Holding On To a Dream

“Stop!” I scream. My mind drifts towards consciousness as I scream; it is a dream that I am fighting to stay in.

As I fight to hold on to my dream, I continue to yell across the room; I cuss at the drunken man who’d pulled my mother from my bed.

“Stop!” I yell at the top of my voice. I can hear my sister begin to cry loudly in her crib.

We are both crying loudly now.

I am out of bed, moving quickly to the doorway where my father pulls my mother by her arm and hair, her pink nightie torn and riding high.

“Stop it!” I yell. I form tight fists and punch my father’s head.

My sister continues to scream.

I continue to pound on my father.

“Stop hurting Mummy!” I continue to hit. I am hoping, like crazy, he will stop.

I wake, angry and frustrated. I settle in my bed. I am shaken but glad I tried to help my mother, even if only in a dream. My mother has been dead for almost 30 years. My father raped her. I want to say more in the dream. I wish I could help my mother, but I am only four. Maybe the images of pink and the stench of alcohol and vomit will fade now.