Since the age of five, I have been dreaming of a dog attacking me. A gigantic black dog in a pitch-black room. I would scream at the top of my lungs, but the dog's barking was louder than my screams. I knew, with certainty, that no one would come to save me, that I had to save myself. So I would push the dog away with both of my heavy hands.
Never, in that nightmare, was I able to see the dog's face. But its barking settled permanently in my ears, and the image of its red eyes, like two burning embers, refused to leave my memory. Its fangs, gleaming in the darkness of the night as they lunged toward my face, are etched into my imagination forever. Pitch darkness, barking, red eyes, and shining fangs—this is all I remember from that terrifying nightmare that became my worst fear of all.
I would wake up in the middle of the night, terrified, drenched in sweat. With trembling hands, I would touch my face to make sure it was still there, that the dog's fangs had not crushed it. My face would be sweaty and sticky, as if the dog's saliva had been smeared across it. Just thinking about it made me nauseous, so I would rush to the bathroom to vomit. I would wash my face with cold water, hoping it might ease my panic. I would return to bed, hoping my eyes might steal a soft, beautiful dream from the long night. But the moment my eyelids met and I closed my eyes, all I could see was utter darkness and a rabid dog charging at me, trying to shatter my face with its fangs.
I would leap out of bed, feeling for the light switch to turn it on, just to make sure that God had indeed created light as well. I would run to my parents' room to tell them what I had seen so they could calm me—but then I would remember that they had died five years ago. I would sit crouched by the window like a bundle of straw gathered by the wind, silently watching the passing cars, fighting sleep, and praying within myself for daylight to come soon.