Last night I had a nightmare to end all. I was talking with an old friend from childhood, Mary, who asked about some DVDs. She said she wanted them, because an ex-girlfriend sent her to retrieve them for reasons unclear to me. I argued with her about the movies, wondering why an ex would even want them, but she insisted it was important. She ended up stealing them and running away.
I was then lying in my old bunk bed in my old family home. I hear my dad rummaging through some stuff and then he starts yelling.
"GODAMN IT. SON OF A BITCH."
He then leapt onto my bed with an old ripped t-shirt on and had the wild look of an angry wolf. He got in the mounted position and had his fist up ready to reign his clenched hands down on me. He kept looking at me with a fierce gaze of someone who snorted a lot of cocaine. I kept trying to talk him down, but he kept his arm up ready to throw down.
Kelly then woke me up. She said I was mumbling gibberish in my sleep. I thanked her, for that was quite possibly the freakiest dream I've ever had.
As most sons I feared my father when I was a young lad. He was at one time the most powerful man on the planet to my wee eyes. With age that depiction changed, but his presence, which once seemed awesome, never has truly diminished.
"Children wish fathers looked but with their eyes; fathers that children with their judgment looked; and either may be wrong." - William Shakespeare