When I was a kid, I would have horrific nightmares. Not horrific in that they included blood and gore, but horrific in I was always running for my life. I would dream that I was being pursued and I knew if I was caught or discovered it would be lethal. I would find myself on the street of my maternal grandparents – stopping at each door knocking madly for someone to help me, to offer me safety, to do something . . . anything. Door after door remained closed, cars were on the street, but nobody was home. Finally, a door opens. I look for safe harbor and I realize that I am staring into the eyes of my pursuer. That is the moment that I would wake up, my heart beating, adrenaline racing through my body. I would be afraid to move, afraid to speak, even though my sister slept just a bed away.
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