I’ve
been reading a book called “The Book Thief” by Markus Zusak, and one of the
main characters has a bad dream every night. The story is set in Germany during
the rise of Adolph Hitler and the poor little girl, named Liesel, saw her
brother die while on a train going to live with a foster family. They are then
forced off the train at the next stop where the boy is unceremoniously buried.
Liesel understandably does not want to leave her Mom, the only family she has
left. Every night she dreams of her older brother dying in their mother’s arms.
I
can relate to Liesel having nightmares. When I was a kid there was a time where
I had a nightmare almost every night. I think part of the reason I did was
because I had such a vivid imagination. The things I dreamed about sometimes
were a whole lot scarier than anything that was on TV back then, and at that
age I had never seen a horror movie. OK, I have to admit that up to about age
12, when Miss Gulch turned into the wicked witch in “The Wizard of Oz”, I was a
little freaked out. I think it was because she reminded me of someone I knew,
maybe a teacher.
The
main nightmare I used to have started when I was about nine years old. A man,
whose face I could never see, with a black leather hat and a black leather jacket
with a high collar, would come out of the closet holding a big, sharp knife in
his right hand and he was coming to get me. I could tell that knife was really
sharp, just by the way the little bit of light in the room twinkled on the edge
of it. And even though I couldn’t see his face I knew he had an evil grin on
that shadowy face. The funny thing is, I never thought that the evil man was
coming after my younger brother who shared the bedroom with me. Nope, he was
just after me.
It
also didn’t matter if we left the closet door open or closed, I still had the
same vision of the guy coming after me. If it was open, he just slowly
appeared; first his shadowy face, then his leather clad arm and then that big
sharp knife as he stepped out of the closet. If the door was closed, the door
would slowly and almost noiselessly open, and then the guy would slowly appear
as when the door was open. I did the only thing a kid could do against a closet
creeper – I screamed and then I ran. In the blink of an eye, I was out of bed,
out of my bedroom and up the hallway, running to safety. Usually, one of my
parents caught me before I got far up the hallway.
However,
there were a few times, they weren’t quick enough. As added detail, let me tell
you that we had a dog back then and we put a board across the divide between
the living room and the dining room to keep him in the dining room at night. On
one occasion, I ran up the hallway into the living room, jumped over the board,
jumped over the dog and went out the door into the back half of the garage
where there was a door to the back yard. My three older brothers (the "three
middle ones") had a bedroom in the front half of the garage and caught me before
I went out of the house into the yard. Where I was going, I have no idea, but
I’m glad they stopped me before I got out.
My
poor parents had no idea what to do with me. They asked me if someone at school
was picking on me (Of course not, I got along with everybody). They asked me if
someone in the neighborhood was hurting me (No, nobody touched me because of my
older brothers). Unless you counted my own brothers, nobody laid a hand on me
or threatened me. Besides, they didn’t really hurt me, at least not enough to
rat them out at this time. I think my parents really thought there was
something wrong with me, that maybe I needed some professional help.
I
also feel bad for my younger brother who shared the room with me. My yelling
and screaming startled him out of some peaceful, happy dreams and there were a
few times he even decided to run with me. One particular night probably scarred
him for life. He was sound asleep, all nice and snuggly in his bed when the
knife appeared out of the closet, followed by the faceless man in his leather
ensemble. I started my usual nighttime routine and, woken up by my screaming,
he started to follow. However, on this night his feet got caught in the
blankets and he couldn’t get out. I looked back and saw him thrashing around to
get loose and yelling helplessly – he was trapped! It was every boy for
himself, and I was out of that room and starting up the hallway. I don’t know
who was louder, me or him.
Those
nightmares stopped after a while, I don’t really know how long it was, and
there was a little more peace at night. Over the years I’ve had people tell me
to “follow your dreams”, but in this case I just have to say, “Thanks, but no.
I think I’d rather live.” Disney may be able to make your dreams come true, but
I think I’d much rather leave them behind. The dreams I had as a young boy, like
Liesel’s in the book, are just not worth pursuing.
