The things I Dream About

I can see him standing there, lording himself over his domain. “Messiah,” I spat the word on the black earth. My head twitching in negation, I avert my eyes. Backing down the slight rise, staying low to the scrubby ground, I see after images of him, white shirted with hands on hips, brown hair receding from a creased brow.

With a nod to my companion, we silently return to camp. I push away the thoughts of my son. I didn’t see him during the compound reconnaissance, but all the reports indicate he is there, working with the rest of those fools to fulfill his father’s dream. I have to bring him home. The mission will accomplish that and more.

Back at camp, we meet one more time with the latest defectors from the compound, my father and brother. “We’re all set. Here are the maps your brother made.” He clasps my arm. “I’m sorry it took so long…” he flounders for more words, so I cut him off with a gesture.

“It’s enough.” I say, hoping he will think that joining me or apologizing is enough when I really mean that he has said enough and I don’t want to hear any more. “It’s time for us to go.”

I turn. My companion follows. We shoulder our weapons and march to liberate the compound.


Sometimes my reality translates into strange dreams. The leader in this vignette is my ex-narcissist.

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