As he steps closer, and without warning, I grab a dagger fastened to my leather belt with my off-hand and, with a reverse grip, slash him straight in the gut. Perhaps it is precision from years of training or just dumb luck, but I strike him right between the plates of his armor.

Ceasing his imitation of a hyena, he falls backward, holding onto his gut with both hands while simultaneously pushing his robes tightly against the wound, doing his best to stop the bleeding. As he is pitifully panicking on the ground, a blonde woman in an elegant black and white dress approaches, arriving with additional soldiers. Her face is covered by a black veil, and the aroma of roses fills the air.

My vision becomes increasingly cloudy, making it extremely difficult to make out any distinguishing features, but I know I have never seen her prior to this experience. Before she reaches me, she looks down at the massive leader and says, “Pitiful fool.” Her voice is quiet, but by her tone, I can tell she is young, or at the very least, immature, rash to decide. She continues speaking, but it becomes difficult to comprehend as my earring begins going the way my sight has.

Walking right up to me, and even though she looks pretty young, she easily picks me up by my robes, lifting me until my feet and knees are limping on the ground. Her eyes glow with red energy from underneath her veil as she continues saying things that I just can’t seem to make out. She’s probably just taunting me or confessing why they are killing me. I don’t know, and right about now, I don’t really care; the pain is reaching the same level as my accident at Fort Benning. Funny how getting shot by an M4 by a fellow soldier is somehow more painful than death by swords.

To my surprise, the woman in black kisses my helmet in a very loving manner until burying a dagger deep into my gut. I think I take back my statement about getting shot being worse; this is much, much more painful. Letting go of me, my body collapses onto a heap on the ground. The last thing I see is her inching toward the nun as I reach out toward her, my vision continually growing darker.

The sharp pain enters my gut, and I feel the world around me lose all stability as I scream myself awake, “AAAAAA!!!” I leap out of my sheets, breathing heavily. Still half-dazed, I begin patting down my gut and chest, looking for stab wounds that aren’t there. I reach behind my right ear and rub the skin where my birthmark is, filling the slight bump of it. Relieved that it is no longer hurting, I lie back down on my pillow and stare up at the ceiling.

My thoughts immediately turn to the changes in the dream, well more like additions to be more accurate, the blonde woman, the final defiant attack on the soldiers’ leader, and finally, the face of the woman I’ve been protecting in every dream I’ve ever had. Tears begin rolling down my cheeks as my mind retraces every detail I could make out about her.

This is the first time I’ve ever seen it, but her face, although new to me, felt extraordinarily familiar. A profound feeling of loneliness and longing that I have never known consumes me. I wipe the tears away for them to only be replaced by more. I try to calm myself down, thinking, ‘Come on, Alex, don’t cry, you were an Army Ranger, for Pete’s sake, and even when you were shot, you didn’t shed a tear.’ I don’t recall ever crying this hard for anything. I do my best not to think about it, thinking, ‘It is just a dream after all. Right?’

These thoughts rekindle thoughts of inadequacies in my own life, my real life. Sometimes, I feel like my life has become stagnant. The dream has never helped that feeling, either. There is something about seeing the same violent scene playing out over and over again that can make you numb to the simpler things.

It isn’t like I haven’t had my own accomplishments throughout my life, but lately, that progression has felt bogged down and blocked, whether by something completely out of my control—saying it to myself makes me realize how immature that sounds—or simply by me. All I do recognize is my complacency and lack of motivation to do anything about it, especially since the accident.

My name, Alexander Ashe Hawkins III, but most folks just call me Alex to save time. I was born on June 1st, 1993, and I currently live in the United States, in the not-so-small, small town of Bountiful, Utah. For those who are unfamiliar, it is nestled just north of the state’s capital, Salt Lake City.

Presently, I work a steady job doing nocturnal security patrols around the Salt Lake downtown area. I don’t get why I just say night watchman. It really is a good gig, and for the most part, the folks I work with are good people. But what it typically means is that nights are usually my days, and days are when I try to catch some much-needed sleep. It might not be the most glamorous job out there, but at least it’s an honest living, and that’s something that I can appreciate.

As I mentioned earlier, I’ve had a life full of accomplishments. I graduated from college with flying colors, near the top of my class, all while actively participating in the United States Army Reserve Officer Training Corps, or ROTC, as it’s commonly known. Post-college, I continued pursuing a military career that led me through Airborne school, followed shortly by Ranger School at Fort Benning in Georgia.

During my time there, I was promoted to the rank of Captain and assumed the responsibility of my unit and orchestrating live-fire training exercises with my troops. During one such high-pressure drill, one of my soldiers stumbled, causing an unintentional discharge of their weapon. The bullet found its way into my shoulder, narrowly avoiding a fatal collision with my heart by only an inch.

The damage was substantial, and the doctor’s prognosis left me counting my blessings. With the severity of the injury and the uncertainty of recovery, I received a medical discharge, necessitating my return to my parent’s home until I could regain my independence.

It took four hellish months. I defied the odds and emerged from that crucible of pain and rehabilitation. Though I bear a small reminder of that fateful incident, with the occasional sensation of bones shifting within my left arm, I count my recovery as nothing short of miraculous.

Enough about me. Let’s move on. I glance at my phone, noting the time: a mere two twenty-seven in the afternoon. A sigh escapes me, for I know all too well that I will be going to work on a measly six hours of sleep once again.

Turning to my side, I see my cat Frigo, still sound asleep and curled up on a pillow he had claimed long ago for his own. He is currently sixteen years old, meaning he has gotten sixteen years to get used to my constant night terrors.

He is a chocolatey blackish-brown Chantilly-Tiffany, a rare breed of cat famous for singing like songbirds. In lieu of typical meowing, he will mix chirps into his meows and purrs.

Noticing the bed rustle a bit more than usual, he slowly opens his yellow-green eyes and stretches his arms out in front of him as he yawns. Beginning to purr, he brushes up against me and begins becoming very vocal, like he always does when we get up.

I pet him on the head, scratching him behind his ears, “Good morning to you too, old man.” He gently brushes his face against my hand.

Finally dragging myself out of bed, I tiredly coax myself into doing my daily routine of showering, brushing my teeth, and starting a round of laundry. While I stand in front of my bathroom mirror brushing my teeth, I stare at myself, the wonders and questions from my dream creeping up on me once more. ‘Why?’ I think. ‘Why start changing now?’

The first memory I have in life is having that damn dream. I was one or two at the time, but I must have been; I was still sleeping in a crib. But I remember waking up crying very loudly; I stopped almost immediately, and I remember seeing lights dancing on the ceiling in the corner of the room. As I remember it, my mother was there, which calmed me down instantly.

It is odd to think that after all these years, it would change, even if it is just a small addition to what was already there. And after twenty-four years, I still am unsure if it is significant in the slightest, I’ve talked to Bishops, counselors, and therapists about it, and none of them know if it means anything.

When I spoke to my father about it, he only mentioned that he has had a similar experience since around the time I was born. He mentioned that every night, he has a similar dream of being trapped in a frozen cage, and that is the reason he doesn’t like cramped places or the snow.

I have questions, I can’t help it, and a part of me, deep inside, feels like they mean something. That these additions may mean something too. Presently I just can’t place it.