Grandma

I remember a lot of my dreams, even from years ago. They are often vivid. Some are beautiful, with colors that don't seem real. Others are horrifying and have left me gasping into wakefulness.

I'll tell you about one of the latter, but first, a little back-story. My great grandmother was 92 when she died in May of 2013. I missed her dearly, but felt at ease knowing her death wasn't painful and that she had lived to a ripe age.

Two months later, my grandmother, her daughter, followed her. Her death was not peaceful and we didn't have time to say goodbye. She had a massive coronary. We thought we had more time. I guess everyone always thinks that.

The dream:

I was at my friend Carol's house, doing her dishes for her. I looked down and there was a hole in my finger. No blood. Only meat and bone. Like a worm had bitten through an apple, almost. I called my mother and she arrived to take me to the hospital, but we stopped at a store on the way; it was this old run down mall. (It's empty now, but at the time of the dream, it was dying.)

My grandma was there. People were talking to her, like it was nothing, but I said to her "why are you here? You died. How did you get here?" She wouldn't answer me. She pointed to a stain on her pants, trying to distract me, but I wouldn't budge.

I said, "You're dead. You're dead."

She said yes. I said "What is it like?" She said, "It's cold and dark and I'm hungry all of the time." And I knew she was talking about hell.

And that was the worst dream I've ever had.