My Daughter Keeps Dreaming That I'm Melting 🫠 Is it Cuz I Fucked Death?

(Stories are true as far as I remember and perceive but names are changed.)

She didn’t start talking until she was three. But before that—before words—she laughed. Interacted with nothing. We have videos of it, proof. 

Her father and I, we’ve had experiences, too. So we wondered. What was she seeing that we couldn’t?

Since she was a baby, she’s been different. Psychic. Intuitive. She sees things, has visions, predicts the future. She's always been a bit of a perv and I think, it's due to the fact that she can read our minds.  

I remember one time, driving in the car with her, music playing, when she starts giggling in the back seat—like she’s seeing something she’s not supposed to.  

She says, "Mom, who's Ezra?"  

I freeze. "How did you know about Ezra? Why are you asking me that right now?"  

She just keeps giggling, then asks, "Is he your boyfriend?"  

"He's my friend, not my boyfriend, but I want him to be. But how do you know about Ezra?" I asked, confused. 

"So you have sex with him?" all while giggling. 

The shocking part about it was that I was daydreaming at the time of all the fucking I did do and was gonna do with him. 

She saw my thoughts. Thought they were funny. We figured out early on that she could do that.  

Her dreams—deep, vivid, so much symbolism and meaning. But what she sees? It scares her. Freaks her out. Sometimes, it’s too much. She’s had panic attacks over it.  

I remember one time. She woke up crying, hysterical. “I don’t want Grandma to die,” she sobbed. “I don’t want her face to turn black.”  

“What do you mean, her face turning black?” I asked.  

She sniffled. “From the fire.”  

A week later, my mom found my grandma dead in her home. Had her cremated.  

When I heard that, my stomach dropped. “Ismara dreamed this,” I told my mom.  

I’ve studied this. I have my own abilities. I understand what’s happening. And I’ve explained it to her, helped her not be afraid.  

I tell her—don’t fear it. Understand it.  

This isn’t the first time she’s dreamed about me melting. That first dream was years ago. Scared her just the same.

She said I was on my hands and knees naked.  And this guy was behind me, fucking me.  She said he poured something on me. In my mind I thought, oh! it's the baby oil 🙄 But the part that horrified her is that I was melting. 🫠

And the person doing that was Ezra.

I had this feeling—something buried deep, twisted could be lurking.  A root of hatred toward me, maybe toward women in general.  

But something about him. Something in him. If I caught his eyes—deep in the dark—I loved what was in there. I just loved him.  

He felt like home. Like comfort. Like trust. But a trust that shouldn’t be trusted. Maybe? And yet, I did.  

For four years, a relationship that never really existed. Random moments, he’d get his fill and vanish. No explanation. No warning. No, I’ll be back.  

Just disappear, sometimes fucking other girls and then he'd have the balls to reappear and ask me, if I wanted some dick. Though the last could times he at least hung out with me for a bit.

I thought he was cute. He made me laugh.  

The first time he pulled that disappearing act, then reappeared, I was like—no. You’re not just gonna fuck me and vanish again.  We'll just be friends who don't fuck. 

Then he went to jail. Just as a friend, I sent him books. Messaged him online.  

That’s when I really felt it—love.  

I made an hour-long video, pouring everything into it. How amazing I thought he was.  

He got out of jail. Didn’t talk to me for six months. That was the second time he abandoned me.  

I messaged him writing these elaborate stories—kinda like I'm doing here, telling him about myself, about how much I love him, the things I realize, dream of and how much I miss him. 

I made a series of ridiculous photos. Just to make myself laugh. Sent them to him. You know pics of our made up wedding, me sitting on his face, fake tattoos of his face on my ass, him riding a unicorn and lassoing my nipple, him as a miner crawling out of my vagina like it was a cave. 

He always read the messages, looked at the pictures. I was dying of laughter over my own artwork, thought he’d get a laugh, but he stayed silent. His brother did however convince my sister to send him several. He apparently got a kick out of them. At least until I showed up at his brothers house with a photo cake of him as a unicorn fucking me. He didn't think that was funny. 🤷

Six months later, Ezra finally spoke. Asked me to come over. I was elated.  

Then the cycle started—appearing, disappearing. Every time he vanished, I broke apart. One time I got so mad, told him straight up this was bullshit. He blocked me. But before that, at 4 AM, I woke to a black fog pressing into my chest, my back. Squeezing. Didn’t know what the fuck was happening, only that by morning, I was blocked.  

Another time I felt it—a few days before I learned he was living with some girl, before he got arrested for drugs again. I told myself that was it. I could only let him in as a friend, not a lover. I held off. Thought I was stronger. I was wrong.  

The only reason I lasted was because I stopped feeling. I shut it off, buried it deep. The love, the hurt. Too much. He wouldn't let me in, wouldn’t let me go. And I wouldn’t let him go. No matter how long, I always returned to him—or he returned to me. It was like he was home. But I don’t think he ever called it home.  

It had been over a year since I let him thaw certain spaces in my heart. But the intuitive messages I got were nudging me to listen to my heart and I did. I fell. Deep, soul-deep. I let him in again.  

Something about it scared me. Like I’d lose myself, lose the world. Maybe my potential. Maybe something worse. I don’t know...  

Now it’s been over a month. Silence. And then—  

My daughter had a dream.  

She said we were in a house. Two of me. She was in a room with her dad. Five little short guys in white suits. Their heads, orange shapes—triangle, circle, hexagon. No eyes, no mouths, but they could see, could speak. One of them was the head guy.  

I was melting. Like the witch in The Wizard of Oz. The head guy pushing me down, pressing me to dissolve faster.  

The other me lay on a bed—eyes open, but asleep. One of the orange-headed figures stood over me, staring but with no eyes.  

Ismara tried to leave the room, but one of the guys in a white suit, with a triangle head—blocked her. Told her she was a bad leader.  

The orange reminded me of a dream I had once.  

A mansion. Outside, five kids sat on the steps. Their backs to me. Red heads—orange. Never saw their faces. They were there when I arrived, still there when I left.  

I left because of the storm. The beasts. Chaos. But the kids just sat there. Unbothered.  

I told my daughter—what they don’t know is, the other me is going to wake up.  

You know how caterpillars become butterflies? Their bodies break down. Dormant genes activate. A new structure is born. Wings, if we're going to fly we should probably have wings.

It made me wonder if the head guy represented Ezra. And he's helping me melt faster. They may not know the other me is waking up.

Maybe that’s why the symbols for Death always show up around him. I don't know actually because Death is the symbol for transformation. It seems that real death would be to not transform, to be comfortable, to be home. But then there is the other death which is to transform become comfort become home. Become the butterfly. 

I don’t want to be a caterpillar anymore. 

What I didn't tell you, is what I saw in the dark last month. I have to transform. 

By Sonya Herrera

✨🔥🏵️ AWEnomALi 🏵️ 🔥 ✨