I Murdered My Father

Another strange dream last night, this one involving violence and murder.

I entered a house in dream through the back door, a house separate from other homes nearby. The white pickup truck with the faded blue stripe was parked behind the house in the driveway, the truck which has appeared in so many of my dreams this past year. My parents are there. I assume it is their house. Not my true life parents, just the ones in dream. These dream parents only resembled my birth parents in body size, not appearance.

My father in the dream was a scary, intimidating man. I felt fear with him nearby. I did something that annoyed him early on in the dream, and he took it out on my mother that night, silently and aggressively behind their closed bedroom door. I did not like this man.

I fought at him the next morning, weary of his abuse, swinging punches at his face and neck, never landing a hit that damaged him- all my movements were slow and ineffective. So I utilized my house keys as a weapon, placing the sharpest ones between my fingers in another clenched fist. Again, it was ineffective. He wasn’t having any of this and left out the front door, I assume to get drunk somewhere, so I locked him out, terrified of him getting back inside. He turned around once I locked the door and tried to get inside. As he tried to get in he kept telling me I “fucked up” and that he was “going to take it out on my mother, like usual”. He rounded the house to the back door, so I scrambled, locking the window next to it and not the door itself (which confused me as I did so). He only checked the window, to my relief, before circling the house to find another way inside. My mom became hysterical, and begged me to let him in because it would hurt less.

I wasn’t about to let anything happen to her at all.

I left the door to comfort her, but remembering I neglected to lock it I dashed madly back; he was already there! I bolted, pushing a beige couch out of my way and getting to the door in the nick of time. He was about to open the door, having unlocked the latch and deadbolt, but I relocked the deadbolt. He was visibly frustrated, unlocking the deadbolt as I locked the latch. Again, frustrated, he unlocked the latch as I locked the deadbolt, but I kept my hand on the key, in the lock position, using my weight and strength to keep it that way. This is where he outsmarted me. (I am now realizing the latch and deadbolt were two way locks, requiring a key on both sides to lock/unlock the door)

I’m unsure how he outsmarted me, or maybe he overpowered my attempt to keep the deadbolt locked, but he did, forcing himself inside. I fought at him with my fist full of keys, but it was yet again ineffective. He pushed past me, my mom hid in the kitchen. He went to her and stood there glaring at her menacingly, clearly scheming on how he was going to hurt my mom extra that night (for some reason a bedside lamp came into my mind). My mom sat at the kitchen table, her eyes puffy and red after crying, but her face and demeanor eerily calm, numb, as if she accepted her impending doom. Years of abuse caused this. My failed actions to keep my father away didn’t help either.

He told her to get up, to go to the bedroom, he would be there after “discussing” a few things with me. She walked past me then stopped, possibly feeling somewhat safe behind me, obviously afraid what would happen if she obliged to his demand. He angrily growled at her to keep moving, but I spoke up:

(paraphrasing) “No! I won’t let you hurt her anymore. I can’t let her hurt anymore. I have to kill you. I have to kill you. I have to kill you.” -a sort of panicked pep talk to myself. My keys became a boning knife, and I slashed at his neck several times. Each cut deeper, each slice I made with more confidence; 4 on the right side of his neck, 5 on the left, I kept missing his jugular. I was set to murder this man, to end his horrible existence. I wanted to kill him. I needed him to die. I needed my mom to be safe. Then I woke up.

———-

I woke up after slicing his neck the 9th time, but I am confident he would have died in my dream if I had not. This nightmare shook me not because of the horridness of it, but because I know it somehow connects to my inner hatred for my real life father. I wouldn’t say I HATE him, but I am sure that currently dormant parts of me do. I just won’t ever accept it, because I do not want to hate anyone. Even him.

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