When would my nightmares end?

My mother said not to worry; she said that these dreams are a product of my worries. We struggled day by day to put food on the table. No one had yet to hire me, and my father lost his job. At the time, I thought maybe she was right. We don’t live in a glass house- everyone is constantly throwing rocks at us. Yet, as the nightmare continued to appear during my sleep, I couldn’t help but bring it up almost daily. My mother told me that if she heard one more word about it, she’d trade me for coin.

“Rebecca, you need to let it go. We have enough to worry about as it is. At this point, I think you’re doing it for attention.”

How could I have been doing this for attention? After the death of my little brother, I was my parent’s only living child. I had nothing but attention from them. But I stayed silent, even while my nights weren’t.

***

It starts off in a forest made not of trees, but of wooden statues- statues of people I recognize: my mother, my father, the king, the queen, my little brother- and people I don’t. Overhead, the sky is crimson. The kind of crimson that runs so red that it’s neon and blinding; I don’t make a habit of looking up. The clouds in this sky are as black as a new moon night, and the sun is an orb of white that casts an eerie glow on the world beneath it. I run, run, run through this disturbed place. My bloody feet hit the ground without a sound as the ground beneath me is ash. As I run through this deprived dirt, I leave footprints as red as the sky. A scream nearby stops me in my tracks- I recognize this screech. It is the screech of a raven.

My bloody feet follow this noise, and it leads me to a clearing. All the statues surrounding this clearing point directly to it- a raven sitting on a half-buried chest. Terrified, I shoo the bird away and unbury the small box and lift it into the palm of my hand.

This time, just before I open it, the black clouds cover the white sun, and my world turns bloodshot. I begin to sink rapidly into the ground, into my own blood. Noiselessly, I scream.

***

My shrill wail of terror echoed in our tiny home. Both my parents came bursting into my room, my mother carrying a torch, my father carrying a knife. When they see I am unharmed- physically, at least- they sighed in relief. My mom, however, walked over and slapped me across the face.

“You know your father needs sleep, and yet you persist in waking us up at night?” My mother shouted at me. My father left the room, shaking his head.

“I-I don’t mean to,” I told her, “this nightmare, it’s-”

Again, my mother slapped me. “Shut up and go back to bed. Tomorrow I’m sending you to the market. You’re going to find a job- hopefully, one that will keep you out at night, so I no longer have to deal with this.”

Tears fell from my cheeks as I buried myself under threadbare blankets and struggled to stay awake.