By Mary Jedlicka Humston © 2012
Rising from bed, I shuffled toward
the bathroom, my eyes quickly adjusting to the comforting darkness of our
bedroom; my hands spidering out, touching a dresser, a chair, a wall.
Suddenly, a heavy shape knocked me
to the floor. I lay in a crumpled heap while powerful hands pummeled me; a
soundless scream echoing nowhere. I tried to escape, but the thing pinned me down. My strength
slipped away like a wounded animal after a lost battle.
In that crushing surrender, I awoke.
Yet again, I’d fallen prey to that nightmare. Soothed by my husband’s warm,
solid presence, I snuggled up to him and calmed my heart and ragged breathing.
Eventually, I fell asleep, the lingering images scattering.
In the placid light of day, I tried
to discern what this nightmare meant. No matter how hard I pondered, it remained
a mystery. I dreaded the middle of the night.
One day the answer appeared with the
same quickness and surprise as the nighttime attacker. The culprit,
