I get a lot of running dreams, no surprise there, but they are spent held back by difficulty breathing. You can feel the chest throb, the heart ache, as you strain to move forward. Breathing is torment, yet you continue. It is always foggy. There is no beginning, and there is certainly no end in sight. The road is a bridge. On occasion, I would yell for someone, anyone, but naturally no one came since my voice was missing from the calling. Or someone would be walking, clear and free, and not notice.

There is always that dread, too, that someone is following.

That probably makes sense. It does if I told you the story. What makes it so unbearable is that sometimes after my eyes open, it keeps going. It’s not just vivid - it does not quite stop. There are times when I run despite the fact that it hurts to run, walk, move. There are moments when I hear things, but I have gotten so used to it that you would never know standing right next to me.

I used to sleep walk when I was younger – you know, after the incident. Katja would tell me the next morning. She would tug on my wrist because the stairs had to be dangerous. Surely enough, I made it safely without so much as a bump, scrape, or bruise, to the landing and stop right there, dead center in the foyer. It’d take a few moments, but eventually, I’d go back up the stairs and to bed.

I never believed her. I always thought she was playing tricks even if that one was a little on the cruel side even for Katja. She would tell me that I was heading towards the door, and I would have made it out, moved on, if not for being stuck in that spot.