I had this dream the night before last, it has been bothering me ever since.

Brandon and I were at my grandparents old house in Atwood. He was sitting on the old couch facing the picture window the way it always used to & he was watching the news. Terrible things were happening in the world or maybe just around us. We were running out of food. He asked me to kill the cat.
(We have two cats now, that he’s had since before me. But his first cat favors him and the second prefers me. She’s an adorable calico with a shy, yet sweet & playful personality. I could go on about all the cute things she does, but I’ll just say that I’m quite taken with her.)
I accept that this must be done and take her into the kitchen an put a towel over her head and get down on the floor to break her neck. I feel and hear a sickening crunch and pull the towel back. I see blood on it. And then I hear a tiny meow. She’s not dead. I look at her face and see blood came out of her nose. I’m so scared. I pet her gently on her forehead to try to soothe her and she starts to purr. I scream as I bring her to Brandon, who tells me to get away. “You’re grossing me out,” he says. I hold her and cry.

And then I wake up. Sobbing & terrified, I reach down to feel her at the foot of the bed. She stretches out her chin for me to scratch under her neck. Brandon must have heard me crying because he wrapped his arms around me and asked me what was wrong. I sob through telling him what I just dreamed and he holds me and apologizes for these things so terrible, though I only imagined them. I get up to wipe my eyes and blow my nose and when I come back to bed, he’s got the cat curled up (on my heating pad) near my pillow so I lay down to pet her and he holds me, and somehow I fall back asleep.

But even as I type, every time I think about it, I start to cry. Why did my brain come up with this horrible idea? I don’t usually put much value into dream interpretations, but I do understand that there are things in our subconscious that seep out to be contemplated. The only thing I have figured might have played a small roll was hearing that Socks had died. Even to say that hearing that story would bring out all of this sounds utterly silly. Maybe not, though. I’m at a loss.
And I need a tissue.


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