When I was a little girl, I always had this reoccuring nightmare.
The dream was me sitting at home on a normal day.
Then out of nowhere flames enclosed my house, trapping the one man I have only ever truly loved.
My father.
Every other part of the house was alright and well.
The fire was right in the main door, in which no one walks in or out of anyway (except for some occasions).
I stared at him as he stared at me for the longest time.
And then he gave me this look as if to say save the rest of the family.
That it was too late to save him.
And that's where I always woke up.
But the dream wasn't part of the nightmare.
The nightmare was when I woke up and realized I could go find him in his bed and cuddle up next to him to know he's okay and here.
My nightmare was the one I am still in to this day.
The one where he is not here.
I went to bed with him not being there and woke up to nothing as well.
The nightmare was my life.