There she goes again with the screaming.
I look over at my clock radio.
3:25am.
I push the thick blanket off of my legs and walk out of my room, down the hall to my mother's bedroom.
As I open the door I find my mother on the floor beside the bed, writhing on the floor, drenched in sweat. Her hair is matted to her face, her eyes are closed and she is screaming.
Her screams are deafening. They make your blood curdle and you want to dig a hole in the earth and bury yourself in it. And I have to hear them almost every night.
I run over to her figure and try to wake her up. She thrashes and fights me. I hold her down. It is easy to overpower her weak and fragile form.
And soon she passes out from sheer exhaustion and I am able to pick her up and carry her over to the bed, where I lay her down and cover her with the blanket.
Her breathing is erratic and I sit down beside her, sponging her with a washcloth and cold water until she is deeply asleep. Quietly, I pad out of the room and lay down in my own bed.
I stare blankly at the ceiling, tears rolling down my face, waiting for sleep to come.
But it doesn't.
It never does, after one of my mother's night terrors.
YOU ARE READING
Dana
Romantizm'"They come often?" He asks taking me by surprise. "Who?" I'm baffled. "Your panic attacks." "No," I say wondering why I'm even telling him, "last one was three years ago." He just nods and walks towards me making me scoot backwards. Grabbing my arm...
