Anti-Climactic Dream

All I could remember was that there was a wooden chair in front of me, and that I grabbed it with both hands by its legs, and smashed it on the wall. I was really angry. I turned my gaze and saw my father and I was really angry. The blood in me was thick with rage, and the dismantled legs of the chair were alive, whispering, "Smash me more, smash me more..."

He saw me. He saw me and he was still shouting. I was really angry and he was still shouting. He was taunting me I couldn't do it. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't stand it anymore. There was one thing in my mind I know I could really do right now, smashed chair and all. Unerringly, pure, bloody, perfect. I know there was one thing I could really do.

I was walking, chair legs in front of me, sweat on my brow, anger in my heart. I could hear him shouting at me, taunting me. I was so angry because I know he was right and he was wrong at the same time. I couldn't do it, I could do it. I couldn't, I could. Couldn't. Could.

And then I didn't want to think anymore. The broken chair legs suddenly found themselves smeared with blood from my father's cheeks. Blood from my father's neck. Blood from my father's forehead. I was shouting, I was breathing heavily. I can't tell anymore if I were laughing or crying or both. I did it. I did it. He was wrong. I was breathing heavily and I did it.

And I was breathing, I was breathing, sweating, and I was breathing... I couldn't hear anything other than the repeated dull thuds of wood against flesh... It was intoxicating.

Then I woke up. But I was still breathing. It was hard to believe. It was hard to believe it didn't actually happen, but the cheerful sun knocking on my window and the happy shrill of the 6AM birds didn't help. A blink. My eyes were caked with the thickness of sleep. Only my subsiding gasps were the link I have with the dream I just had, and it was fading with every second, until after a few more, it was gone.

I sat up and looked at the clock on my phone. 6:49 AM. Weird. I slept through the whole night. More weird. I feel good. I unplugged my phone from the charger and opened the window. A chuckle let itself out from my lips. I wanted to kill the feeling, but it's hard when the crisp morning breeze smells so sweet. It's too ironic, I wanted to close the window and kick the bed, but if I do so, I might just end up laughing my ass off.

So I figured there's nothing much to do but exhale the last of the dream off. Mornings like these don't come everyday, and I don't want to waste it with thoughts of my father. Said to myself that it was just a dream, and what matters is I'm awake and out of that dream. With that thought I had a beautiful day.

Until now that is. Now the fear is creeping. I'm afraid that the dream is already not far from being real.

It shouldn't have come to this...