dream a little dream with me

It is the afternoon of my sixth birthday. I am going to have a huge party with all of my little friends. There will be lots of presents. Lots of fun. I am in the house I was born in, which is strange, since we moved into our other house when I was one year old. The hard wood in the living room gleams a warm, glistening amber. The sun streams through the kitchen window and radiates into the living room. I fix my polka dot birthday hat on top of my head. I hate how the stretchy band snags the flesh under my neck. The day is beautiful. With a roar my father tears into the living room through the door behind me. I whirl around. His eyes are huge and filled with hate. His silver hair is blown away from his face with the speed of his entrance. I have never seen anyone move so fast. A shimmer catches my eye and I focus away from his face. He holds a huge meat knife above his head. I let out a cry and begin to run before I even get fully turned around. The front door seems a thousand miles away. I don’t know how I can ever make it. Still, I bolt for the door. The room morphs into the hallway outside the bathroom with the scary toilet and the door to the attic in the house that I currently live in. I am disoriented by the shifting location, but am quickly brought back to reality by my father’s bellowing. I rush through the hallway and bound down the stairs to the living room. As I run, I catch glimpses of all my friends in their matching colorful pointed birthday hats. There are balloons of red, yellow, and blue all over the room. Dad is getting closer. I quickly make my way through the library and into the kitchen. More of my friends. The kitchen table is completely covered in brightly wrapped packages. I don’t see mom anywhere. I would love to open those presents. I see dad slash his knife out of the corner of my eye. I take a quick right and rush down the next hallway swatting balloons out of my path and appear in the family room. The sun pouring through the windows onto the next group of friends awaiting my arrival. I manage to make it through the living room. I reject the option of running up the stairs to the playroom. It is a dead end. I make a quick left and stumble down the stairs. Just get through this door and into the garage and then outside and I will be safe. A neighbor will help me. They will get me to safety. I make it to the door and twist the handle. It doesn’t turn. I jerk it ferociously. Nothing. I emit a groan and twist again. Still nothing. I turn back around. Maybe I can make it back to the playroom and hide there until I can get somewhere else. Dad is at the top of the stairs. His eyes as wild as his hair. He now holds the knife above his head with both of his hands. He screams and throws himself down the stairs. My back presses into the wooden door. The handle still won’t budge. The knife arcs down towards my face. The hate filled screaming reverberates in my ears.
I don’t know if this dream was a foreshadowing of horrific birthdays to come, a warning to be wary of my birthdays, or the beginning of a self-fulfilling prophecy. No matter what it meant, the majority of my birthdays have brought me nothing but pain and disappointment. I have learned to dread them. I am always relieved when they are over and life can move on, un-cursed for another year.