That Time

Those times, I'd sleep screaming
bloody murder, maybe two
or three in the morning. "Another night terror
I'll go," Mom probably muttered, wrapping her ugly
plaid robe all around her,
padding down
the long hall, flinging open
the door, squinting into the dark
bedroom. Which spot
was I standing or crouching
this time? At last meeting
my sightless wide eyes
deaf ears to her cooing,
"Tell me your dreams"

But that time,
when I screamed
those cold, steely-tinged screams,
sounds snatched from some alien dream demon's belly,
she heard the change, but I didn't. I was
busy being chased by a two-headed monster, whose claws
and jagged teeth were just that close
to trapping me. I tried to escape
through the closed bedroom window,
woke not to soft cooing, but the sharp sounds
of glass breaking, throaty howls
that could never
be my own voice.

But that time,
they were; this nightmare was real. Thick and red blood
spreading over everything--the floor
my bed, the wall, and when our eyes
finally focused on its source--
my own arm--we were transfixed for an instant
by the seldom seen bone and muscle
peeking through the throbbing gash.

That time,
no stumbling back to bed
in warm darkness.
That time, bright emergency lights,
urgent voices, and stitches--so many stiches
to close up the wound and
stop all that blood. That time,
there would still be no answers to
unanswered questions. No spells
to warn off future terrors. No slaying
of monsters.

Not that time.
Maybe never.
"Sleep tight."