Editor’s note: Estefania Hagins’s story was an honorable mention in The Kiosk’s Fall 2023 Fiction Story Contest.

In the dream, I am with my mother and her boyfriend as we walk to the train station. I looked at my watch repeatedly because it was nearing one o’clock in the morning, I knew it was late and I needed to reach my children at home. An hour passed as we waited for the train in the cold; I stood upset because I lost my jacket. I suddenly notice a man in a long black leather jacket and a matching hat, his head tilted towards the ground. He sits alone on one of the wooden benches, perhaps sleeping. In the bright light of the station, he was a shadow absorbing any light. Over some time, a sinking feeling in my stomach told me someone was watching us. I told my mother and her boyfriend I had a feeling something was wrong, and we should take a taxi home. As we turn to leave the train arrives. We climb on the train, the doors close, and there he is, the man in the leather jacket. He shuffles towards us, his left hand gripping a knife. My mother’s screams fill the air. She cries for help as her boyfriend is stabbed. He turns to stab my mother, and I finally react with a scream as blood splashes around me. Everywhere I look there is blood. I scream for help but my pleads go unheard in the empty train, or so I thought. In that moment my two kids appear. Oddly enough they are 15 years apart but appear to me as toddlers. Through the small window at the end of the train, I can see them in the next cart walking towards us. A Fear so strong, I hardly find the words to explain it, takes over me. I tried to alert them to the danger, begged them to stay in place but my voice escaped me. They see the shadow men stab me repeatedly. Suddenly it all stops, there is quiet, I lay in the rocking train. The last thing I see is my kids holding me, tears in their eyes as I take my last breath.

The Analysis:

For many years I’ve lived with anxiety triggered by my fear of death. The uncompromising finality of it all. Still, I don’t recall experiencing these nightmares. Not until the passing of my grandmother. I was face to face with death, with the destruction left in its wake. So many people I care for hurting. Most of all my mother. Her heartache triggered by memories and words unspoken, a cloche she carries, waying her down but equally bringing her joyous thoughts. Some believe nightmares of reflections of fears. As I analyze my dream, I wonder what fears I have. For one, I fear leaving my children vulnerable. Would they be able to fend for themselves if I’m gone? Will there ever be a time they won’t need their mother? Perhaps it’s why I see my five-year-old and 16-year-old as toddlers. In my eyes, they will always be my little kids. My mother lost my grandmother without saying goodbye, it was so sudden. This fear is perhaps why no matter what version of this dream I have she always appears with me, the same tragic end as mine. I lose her first before my own demise. I fear losing my mother without having the opportunity to say farewell. She has supported me through life’s hardest hits. The shadow man, a large threatening and powerful entity in my dream. He appears in different forms. I see him as death himself. I cannot stop him; I do not see him coming. Suddenly he is there, he has made a choice and I only have the choice to react. I lose my voice when I cry for help. Even in my dream I see it is futile, there is no bargaining with death. Even so, I have a moment of peace, I lay knowing my time has come, but my children are there to embrace me. In the end a part of me knows life goes on, they will be okay. I don’t need to fear. My Hispanic family is tight knit. Generations that bicker and argue but are always there for each other. I know, even in my dream my children are safe.