Afraid. I might have made a strangled cry, but I wasn’t sure. It took a few seconds for me to realize I was safe. In bed. A man by my side. A man who loved me. And whom I loved back. “Are you okay? Riley?” By then Garnett had reached for a lamp switch. Light brought reassurance that the warmth I felt came from blankets, not blood. My nightmare stemmed from a childhood memory I hadn’t thought about for decades: the day the chickens got butchered. We kids were supposed to take turns holding the comb of the bird’s head across a wooden stump while my mother held the feet. I remember the chicken’s eye blinking as its neck stretched uncomfortably. Then my father swung the ax. I tried blocking out the red hue as I rushed to the bathroom to puke. Vomit vapor hit my arms, reminding me of the warm mist of chicken blood on my skin long ago. Then I threw up again. “Can I get you anything?” Garnett handed me my bathrobe. I shook my head, rinsed my mouth, and climbed back in bed. He held me close, urging me to go back to sleep.
