It was late afternoon, and I was standing in the middle of the road. The car was wrapped around a tree. Fumes were coming out from under the hood. It took me a minute, but I knew I was dreaming. It was a weird sensation, knowing the place was not real but not being able to wake up. I had been having this dream most of my life—or, more accurately, this nightmare. I was six then, watching my parents die inside the vehicle, too young to help. I was told that the impact had thrown me from the car.
“Isis, don’t cry. You are not alone.”
I looked up and saw my mother standing over me. I couldn’t remember much of her, but I could see her so clearly. Today her dark hair was wrapped in a bun on top of her head. She wore no makeup, but her eyes had a natural outline that made the almond shape stand out even more. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans, and she smelled like jasmine. My mother had a light tan, and she was beautiful.
“Mom, please don’t leave me again.” I reached for her but couldn’t touch her. I was crying.
“Baby, you are stronger than you think. Don’t be afraid. I’m always with you.” She kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes to take it all in. That part was new. I had never seen my mother in this dream. I had always ended alone and small.
I opened my eyes, and I was no longer standing in the middle of the road. I was in Fallujah, Iraq. I was wearing my military uniform, including the Kevlar. I closed my eyes, forcing the dream to change again. Nothing happened. I was still in Iraq watching the inevitable. My heart was pounding, and my hands were sweating. I waved my hands as the convoy passed by me.
Like clockwork, the gunfire started. The drivers performed defensive maneuvers. Instead of avoiding the incoming danger, they drove, without knowing, directly over the IED.
“Nooooo! Please stop!” I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Our HEMTT had flipped over. I saw myself pulling the dead body of my friend out. I was holding Sergeant Richardson’s body.
“Isis, let me go. It wasn’t your fault.” Sergeant Richardson was standing next to me on the side of the road, smiling. That boyish smile played on his face as he spoke. We were band people. We had no right to be in a convoy. But we were soldiers first; everything else was second.
The pain was too intense. I fell to my knees, and more tears kept coming. He’d never said those words to me. What was going on? For over a year now, I had been having this nightmare. Why was it different now? I kept trying to wake up, but I couldn’t. I could smell the blood on me. I closed my eyes and sobbed.
“Aghhhh.” I knew where I was before I opened my eyes. That cry was imprinted in my memory. This time I was back in Brooklyn, staring down the fire escape. The mangled body of the intern lay on the ground. He wasn’t moving.
“Oh God, please let him be OK.” Please make this stop, God. I begged God and all the saints. I was flying down the stairs with my dream self. This time, the intern was sitting up looking at me when I reached him.
“You need to get ahold of yourself. Learn to control your emotions and forgive yourself, or you will go crazy.”
The intern vanished.
“Wait. Come back.” What was going on? I started having a panic attack. Maybe it was too late and I was already going crazy.
“Let me out! Let me out!” My screams woke me up. I was covered in sweat, sitting straight up on my bed.
“Oh God, help me.”
“He is trying to help you. Maybe you should let him.” The voice came from the corner of my room.
“Holy cow!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I pulled my sheets over me, as if they were going to save me. I wasn’t judging my courage. Trust me, at two in the morning, nobody is brave.
From the shadows, Death appeared. She sat on the director’s chair I had in my room. She made it look like an executive chair. With an incredible grace, she crossed her legs.
“How did you get in?”
Death just arched an eyebrow and smiled. OK, so I was a little slow in the middle of the night. Not my fault.
“Do you honestly think doors and locks can stop me?”
“Good point. Disregard that question. Why are you here?” I wasn’t sure whether I was ready to hear the answer to that.
“Dreams can be powerful tools. At times, those who have passed have used them to communicate with the living. Your subconscious is more open to the supernatural during sleep. Especially now that you have been blessed by me,” Death said, as if it actually made sense.
“I’m not sure if my definition of ‘blessing’ is the same as yours. What do you mean ‘at times’? What about the rest of the time?” I had had dreams with people who weren’t dead. Were they foretelling my future? I hoped not.
“The rest are just random thoughts running through your mind. Some people have gone mad trying to interpret them all. Looking for meaning in the nonsense.” She was not offended by my comment.
“Great. So am I dreaming or awake?”
Death gave me that knowing smile. “You tell me.”
“Definitely awake. In my dream, I wouldn’t be getting a lecture or intimidated into working for you.” I was feeling brave—or just too tired to care.
“Sorry to disappoint you, dear. I don’t need to terrorize anyone to work for me. I’m just following one of
