Nightmares

This morning, as the sunlight filtered through the bedroom drapes, my wife put her arms around me and held me tighter than usual. She had had a bad dream.

In the dream, she was in the shower, washing the new tattoo she'd just gotten on her stomach. Her doctor told her she would not live long enough to see it heal: she had stomach cancer. And while she washed around it, she felt herself dying. "You know how the doctor told me I wouldn't live long enough to see my tattoo heal?" Yes, I replied. "This is it. I'm dying." And die she did. But it didn't end there. She watched as I emotionally crumbled.

WTF?!?!

Why can't my wife have "normal" nightmares? She is always dreaming about the end of the world, where everyone around her is dying. Or dreams where she has to save our entire family from a catastrophic event, the cat included. And sometimes we're kidnapped. Or people--people with some kind of affliction, like zombies or space-aged monsters--are chasing her. Why can't she have bad dreams about our house being foreclosed on or burning Thanksgiving dinner? Why do they always have to scare the shit out of me too?

The bedroom is still dark in the mornings, so when she tells me about her nightmares, I'm glad she cannot see my face. It is a testament to how fucked up I think her sub-conscience is. Panic and fear reside in my eyes. My mouth is pulled tight. And I can't help thinking that if I had her nightmares, I would never want to go to sleep.

I keep telling her that some of her dreams would make great screenplays. Screenplays that I think could actually sell. At least that way, while her dreams might still scare the shit out of me, they would scare me from the comforts of a million dollar home.