Awoken

   I remember very little of the dream I had before I awoke with a start; the back of my neck slightly damp from the fear the nightmare had instilled in me. I slid my hand to the other side of the bed, where my husband lay soundly snoring. While stretching I tried hard to recall what the nightmare had been about, though it seemed the scant memory was long gone.
   Without another thought I settled down again, drifting silently into another round of dreams.

   Months passed while each night I would wake up around the same time: 3 am. Each time would harbor the memory of having a nightmare but never remembering. Each time I would see if Mark was okay, and each time he would be right next to me, breathing heavily with only his head poking from the covers.

   I contacted a therapist who told me I may be reacting to a terrible event that had occurred within the past few years.
   The Monday I went to see her was sunny and cloudless, it being late in July. Her office was situated just off the side of a very precarious road, on which I nearly hit and killed a small rabbit.

"That road seems dangerous, the city should've paved it by now." I had asked her if my being late was a problem.
"Oh, darling I wish they would, so many good people have died just driving on that thing."

   Karen was polite as I described what kept happening to me, and how Mark seemed to be laying the same way each time.
  
   Karen's brows furrowed together, not quite understanding a particular detail.
"Honey, what's that you said about your husband?"
Thinking she knew the critical point of his part in my nightmares, I reiterated,"Mark is always sleeping with his head out and he's sleeping just fine when I wake up."

   Again Karen seemed confused,"Darlin' I don't quite understand how he could be sleeping next to you."

The hair raised on my neck. Why couldn't that be possible.

   Karen excused me, being too choked up to answer.
On the way home, I mentally anguished over what she meant. How could that be more important than my dreams?

   At home I called to Mark, he most certainly should be home. His car was in the garage, but why did it look so stale and dirty?
 
   "Mark, honey?"

   I started to prepare dinner when a paper on the counter caught my eye.
   'I thought I had paid all the bills...'

   The paper was a pamphlet, with a simple photo of my husband proudly smiling for the camera.

   Mark David Long
   March 17, 1975- June 22, 2011
   One hell of a guy.

Author's Note

This has been edited from it's original version; the ending may still be shaky, feedback is very welcome.

Reviews

[James Walker]

First of all, your writing style provides great quality to the story. I was immersed during the reading as I navigated through your words. When you main character said "The hair raised on my neck", I must admit my hair did the same. But it was a mixed feeling. On the one hand, I felt fear of the unknown, which I suppose was your intention. On the other hand, I felt a little disappointed as I realized this very well written work would have the disclosure of a classic horror story plot.

[Veronica Ostling-Hirschberg]

This was a piece I rushed; so I too feel your disappointment. I wanted to do more with it but was crunched for time. I'm considering editing it but I'll have to think of a better ending. Thank you for reading :)