But I remember the flicker of comfort I felt at hearing my native language.
A silly, homesick part of me had been glad. Grateful, even.
He asked if I was from Bucharest. I said no, smiling.
“I’m more western.”
He laughed. Said he could tell.
Then stepped a little closer.
“Andy Moldovan,”he said, extending a gloved hand. “Pleasure.”
I never got to answer.
The dream shifts.
Suddenly, it’s night. Everything’s cold. Muffled.
Off.
Flashing lights blur in my periphery.
Taxi door slamming. Footsteps on gravel.
A flickering lamp buzzes above an old, rusted fence.
A voice—too loud. A face—too close.
Words I can’t understand, or maybe I don’t want to.
The stench of gasoline, and sweat, and cheap cologne chokes the air.
I try to run but my legs won’t move.
I scream but no sound comes out.
Then the shadow falls over me.
And everything goes dark.
* * *
I wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
The nightmare fades slowly, dissolving into the shadows of the room—but its grip lingers, cold and sharp, curling around my chest.
My sheets are tangled around me, twisted tight like a trap.
I sit up abruptly, pressing my palm hard against my mouth to keep from crying out.
It’s never over.
I force myself to breathe—in, out, in again—counting slowly until the panic recedes, just enough to function.
My whole body trembles. Every nerve feels raw.
It’s been a long time since the nightmares hit me like this.
