A vicious savage-looking woman (much like Mr. Rochester’s wife in Jane Eyre) raised her ugly dull head and smiled wickedly at me. Her dentures peeped eagerly from behind her lips that had more cracks than an old door. I was scared to death.

Her eyes were very violent and she looked at me as if she wanted to kill me. If only looks could kill, I would be a dead moth.

I stood there, struck. I couldn’t run. She enslaved me with her looks. She pursed her lips and again smiled wickedly at me. I gulped down some air. I could feel the sweat running down my spine. Or was it a chill?

If only I could call out for help. But alas! I had to endure this. An obligation to be borne repeatedly with the same gruelling pain.

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I panicked when she raised her hand. I thought she was going to strike me. I wondered what kind of weapon she would use this time.

She caressed my face. Her fat wrinkled hand was cold. I wondered whether she had liquid poison on her hand that would enter my skin when she touched me.

When she opened her mouth, I was sure fire would blow out of it.

Instead, she asked maliciously, “Maddie, I hope your health is fine?”

It sounded much like, “Maddie, I wish you were dead.”

I mumbled “Fine” and the spell was broken. I ran for my life.

I had a dream.
A very scary dream.
A nightmare.

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