My Repeat Killer

I had a weird, weird dream the other night.

There was a killer after me.

They say you never dream about people you’ve never seen — even if you don’t recognize the faces, you’ve seen them at least once before in your life. The Killer had a mask on, though, so I have no idea whose face he was wearing.

I was at my mother’s house — one of two homes in which I grew up — in Ocean City, NJ. I don’t know why I was there. But I remember going to the boardwalk — between the same streets on which I used to hang out as a teenager. That’s where The Killer found me.

I managed to outrun him, at first. But he followed me without my knowledge and knew exactly where to find me for his next strike.

When I saw him approaching the house, I ran again. Through the slightly hidden passage between my mom’s garage and neighbor’s fence. But he knew about it and followed me, again, into the alley. Which is where he caught up with me and slit my throat. The only weapon he had was a large kitchen knife.


I remember feeling the sense of dying as I was lying there on the asphalt, where I’d pitter-pattered my feet so many times. I was positioned directly next to two berry bushes, between which I used to hide with my friends and smoke cigarettes. The Killer stood over me for a few moments and then started to walk away.

I decided I wasn’t dying there. Not then. So I jumped up, held my neck closed, and ran away. The Killer saw me but didn’t bother to follow.

After I had (somehow, remember this is dreamland) managed to sew myself up and heal all my wounds, I went back to the boardwalk. I don’t know why.

The Killer saw me again, but this time he didn’t follow. He got his posse to chase me down. So we went through the whole process again, only with me driving and them following me. I lost them for a moment and, again, decided to go to my mom’s house. But I remembered how The Killer had found me last time, so I parked around the block thinking it would deter them from finding the correct house.

It didn’t. They didn’t find me at the initial house, so they knocked on every door until they got to me. But for some reason I suddenly felt immense adoration for The Killer. I wanted them to find me so they could bring me to him. (I also didn’t want my mom to die.) So I opened the door and allowed them to take me.

This is where things get fuzzy. I remember being in some dark, dusty dungeon of sorts. It was a lot like Oogey Boogey‘s lair in The Nightmare Before Christmas.

I was with, I guess, The Killer’s minions and I just kept asking them to see him. I knew he was still going to kill me, but I also knew he loved me, too, so we could at least have a few sweet moments before he did.

And we did have those moments. I remember feeling so utterly in love I didn’t even care if he killed me. We went on dates and embraced and somehow kissed — I guess his mask had a mouth hole.

From there I don’t remember much. I know that he never actually killed me, but only because I either woke up or switched dreams before he did. The last thing I recall was him holding me, about to kill me again.

*  *  *  *  *

At first I thought the dream was super weird and held no relevance. But then zebrawoman (from On the Prowl at 40) mentioned that often when you’re killed in dreams it represents “an aspect of your life being killed off”. I don’t know what exactly would be being killed off . . . maybe my ignorance about my mental health, or maybe my nonchalance about sleeping around — but nothing seemed to jump out at me as changing too much.

Then Kitt O’Malley realized that, quite possibly, The Killer in my dream could have been my subconscious’s way of interpreting Nate, “because of the knife-wielding image and your abiding love for him”. Which makes a lot of sense because he led me on for about six years before we finally got back together, and even then it was rocky for another year. But I always stay, and staying makes me happy even if he is killing me. Plus, you know, the whole being in prison for stabbing someone thing.

So I’m not really sure if the dream meant anything, or what it did if it did. But I do know it didn’t feel like a nightmare — the love pushed everything else to the side — and I was saddened by its ending. So maybe that means something. I hope it’s something good.

*  *  *  *  *

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One thought on “My Repeat Killer

  1. Sounds like the truth may be some combination of the two. You seem to be processing something. Change is a foot, even if that change is simply clarification and insight. You are sharing your story of your relationship with Nate and Nate’s history of violence. You are overcoming addiction, another dangerous love, may I add. You are developing as a writer and as a mother. Bravo for putting this out there. I wish you the best as you continue your journey.


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