Not today, but six years ago, peacefully laying in the bed. Sleeping. Dreaming. Smiling. Holding onto my husband’s hand, as I often do when I’m resting.
A quiet calm before me. Life is pleasant and good. I’m in a euphoric bliss.
Out of the silence of night came a horrific scream. Torment. Pain. Fear. With adrenaline rushing I come fleeing out of the bedroom and into hers.
I see my daughter laying on her bed with the blankets pulled all the way over her. Every inch of her body was covered by her comforter. Alert, I was relieved when I witnessed the blankets moving with the breath of my daughter.
I inquire what the scream was about, assuming a nightmare haunting her sleep, when out of nowhere, I was struck.
I didn’t know what hit me, but terror filled my body, so much so that my speech was muted. I tried with all my might to call my husband, but air simply felt out of my mouth. I had nothing.
My daughter found her voice box and screamed again. Loud.
My husband opens the door to see me squatting with my hands over my head. I knew I wasn’t in pain, but I didn’t feel like risking whatever it was that hit me, again.
Immediately my husband understood. He screams for us to get out of the room and into another. He yells at us to shut the door behind us. Like robots, frozen in terror, we obey.
Moments escape. I hear the racket downstairs. Things were crashing. I heard glass breaking. There was a lot of rumbling.
More time passes. I hear the door slam. My husband, calls my name. I come bounding down the stairs to see my husband proudly holding a broom, smiling. Papers are scattered across the floor. Pictures tilted on the wall. My husband was beaming for saving the family.
“I killed the bat. Come check it out.” He says, grinning.
Relief sinks in. I glance at all six inches of the demon and smile.
My husband is a superhero. We can all rest easy again. I yawn as I head back to bed. Again, life is good.