She's standing in front of him. His voice is raised. Hers is calm, like always.

He's yelling about something. I can't hear him, even though his words are louder than my thoughts. He's throwing his hands around, my moms hands resting by her sides, but then he points at me. 

I'm standing behind him, but even then his finger is perfectly aimed at my face. He finds me wherever I am, even in my dreams.

Moms eyes widen at his next words, she tries to step forward and stop him. But he's faster. He turns around, raises his hand. I hear it before it lands, hissing through the air, and then I feel the pain on my face.

I stand still. This is the moment I should wake up, but the cruelty of the dream remains. 

He grabs me by the collar of my sweater and drags me out of the house. He throws me on the asphalt and yells. 

And yells.

And yells.

And yells.

I don't need to hear him to know what he's screaming about.

After a while he turns back around and shuts the door behind him. His movements are quick. Sometimes you can't even see his hand move. You just feel, and that's how you know.

Mom ran away while he was screaming. She ran to the place we built for ourselves, a small hut in the nearby forest. I want to follow her there, but my legs aren't moving, my body's not reacting to the orders of my brain.

So I lie there, on the cold ground. I know it's a dream. I am well aware. But that never stops the dream from happening. Never. Dreams end when it's their time to end, not when you know you're dreaming.

I lie there, staring at the clouds. They look back at me.