by Frances Tate
“And the dreams?” the psychiatrist asks.
“Stopped,” I lie, won’t admit the rain still brings them on. Worse than ever.
I drive home, wipers dancing.
Cooking makes me feel better; a romantic meal for one. Italian. Plenty of wine. I go to bed feeling relaxed.
I wake, soaked and shivering.
In my dream, a monster entered a random family’s home. Tore the children apart first.
Shredded Mum as she tried to reach them. Took a bullet, didn’t stop. Ripped Daddy asunder.
Rising, whimpering and sore, I see the blood-streaked monster at the bare first-floor window: Scream.
At my reflection.
Frances Tate is a British self-published writer of vampires and drabbles who has recently rediscovered short stories. She has been published in The Dark Sire, CommuterLit and The Drabble. She’s had drabbles accepted for a number of Black Hare Press Anthologies.
She enjoys gardening, historical sites, cinema, reading and travelling.