Punishment And Love Don't Mix

Dreaming

As I've mentioned, my dreams are like Hell times a thousand. They burn, they thrive, and they won't leave. Example, the one I have after I pass out. I stand on the side of a neighborhood street. It's a nice neighborhood, a sweet one, with two story houses colored like rainbows and children playing in yards. Across the street, in the yard of a purple house, a younger, less beaten version of me plays with a small girl. The young me and the girl throw a small sack back and forth, laughing as we fail to catch it. Young me throws the sack over the small child's head and lands in the street. The small child stands on her two feet and walks into the calm road. Just as she bends down to collect the sack, the world turns dark, down the street, a roar of a truck starts up, and the truck appears, a huge white monstrosity. Barreling down the road, the driver too busy kissing a hooker to see the small child in the road. He only notices after his wheels make contact with my sister's head, and she falls and is squashed under the weight of the truck. But the car keeps driving, and I am screaming as my sister lay dead in the street, her perfect white dress now coated with red.