Nightly Terrors When Moms Absent Mind Jolted Me to Sobbing Wakefulness
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As dreams are the windows to our subconscious, one particularly vivid and unsettling episode left me haunted and bereft of sleep. It was a night when my mother's absent-mindedness took a sinister turn, leading me down a path of fear and tears. Let me take you through the chilling details of my nightmare that jolted me awake, sobbing in the silence of the night.
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The night was as tranquil as the gentle whisper of the wind through the willows, save for the unspoken anxiety that had settled in my chest like a heavy stone. I had been drifting in and out of sleep, the warmth of my bed a sanctuary from the world beyond its confines. But it was not to be.
In the depths of my slumber, I found myself in a room that seemed to be a blend of my childhood home and some distant, forgotten place. My mother sat at the edge of the bed, her eyes wide with a look of confusion that was not hers. She was staring into space, her hands resting on the edge, as if searching for something just beyond her grasp.
Mom, what's wrong? I whispered, my voice a mere thread in the silence of the room.
She turned her head slowly, as if just noticing me, and her eyes met mine with a gaze that held no recognition. Where am I? she asked, her voice distant, as if she were a stranger in her own home.
Panic began to ripple through me like waves on a stormy sea. It's okay, Mom, I said, my voice trembling, You're home, it's just a dream.
But as I spoke, I realized that it wasn't just a dream. Her eyes, which should have held the warmth of a mother's love, were void of any emotion, cold and hollow. She stood up, her movements fluid yet unnatural, as if she were a puppet without strings.
Stay back, I warned, my voice a mixture of fear and disbelief.
But she moved forward, her hands outstretched as if seeking something that wasn't there. Suddenly, she lunged at me, her fingers brushing against my face. I felt a chill run down my spine, and I screamed, a sound that echoed through the empty room.
The scream woke me up, my eyes flying open to the darkness of my bedroom. I was sitting up, gasping for breath, my heart pounding in my chest. The room was silent, save for the distant hum of the city below. I was alone, and yet I felt like I was still trapped in that nightmare.
I reached out to touch the nightstand, expecting to find my phone there, but it wasn't. The phone was on the floor, and I realized with a start that I was still in bed. The dream had been so real, so vivid, that I had convinced myself I was still there, still being chased by my mother's absent self.
I sat there for a moment, trying to steady my breathing, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. Then, I slowly got up and went to the bathroom, where I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my own reflection. The image was blurred and slightly distorted, as if the dream was still trying to cling to me.
As I stood there, I realized that dreams are just that—dreams. They are the products of our subconscious, the echoes of our fears and desires. But this dream, this terrifying encounter with my mother's absent self, was different. It was a jarring reminder that even in the safety of our own homes, our minds can be places of chaos and fear.
The night passed, and eventually, I fell back into a fitful sleep, my mind replaying the events of the night before. But I knew that I would wake up again, and each time, I would have to face the fear that had taken root in the darkest corners of my mind.
And so, I lie here, waiting for the night to pass, hoping that the next dream will be one of peace, where my mother's warm eyes and gentle smile are the only things that wake me up.
