I had a dream of him last night. He had a wolf tattoo on his chest and a beard threaded with silver hair. He was in a rehabilitation facility and could barely speak, yet he kept reaching out to me like he knew me. You would think that such a dream would make me feel strong, as though I had conquered that demon, that I had reduced him down to a feeble man and not a monster.
Instead, this morning, I feel tears stab my eyes, and I want to reach out to him, to make sure he’s okay. I know he’s not my responsibility anymore; I know I should save my energy on more productive things: the man I love, school, work, my writing, but he keeps popping up in my mind now that I know he is still out there. When he reached out to me, that rattled me to the core, it made me feel unsettled, unstable, but now, curiosity is beckoning me to reach out to him, but I am fighting that urge.
That urge is what lead me to trouble in the past, and even though five years have passed, I still worry about the tumultuous effect he could have on me. He’s like lightning. When he strikes the wrong place at the wrong time, he could leave a disaster in his wake.
And I am tired of being a disaster.