This isn’t the type of story I like to write. But then again, this wasn’t a story. This was a dream.

A nightmare.

It was one of those nightmares you have when you’re sick. You know the kind I mean? The ones that are all disjointed and don’t make any sense.

Last week, when I was at my shrink, I told him about the weird dreams I was having. He said I was redacting; changing it as the day went on to fit what I somehow wanted to see.

Ha… as if I wanted to see them!

I shouldn’t have told him. If I hadn’t have told him, I wouldn’t be writing them down now. But here I am, writing this insaneness. I don’t know why I bother. He won’t believe me anyway.

This one was really bad. It was so clear. I heard the screams. The gut-wrenching cries. I saw the smoke. It started small and grew larger and larger as it pulled everything around it into itself. The mushroom towered over what used to be a midwest town.

I didn’t want to write anymore. And this time I won’t turn on the tv. I would keep the images inside me today. This time the nightmare wouldn’t come true.

I was sure I could control it.

Until I looked out the window.

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