What does a serial killer look like?  I had only to roll over and open my eyes every morning to know.  Ten years I slept with a serial killer -- a serial killer of dreams ... my dreams.  Who knows how many went before mine.

He lured my dreams, each one, out of the recesses of my heart with just one decoy -- a promise to make them all come true.  And I believed him.  I believed him because I wanted to believe him ... desperately so.

When first we met, I possessed no illusions about being the one, his soulmate, that special one to capture his heart ... soothe his soul, put an end to his dream killing spree.  All I wanted was to taste joy.

Even after a string of woefully unfulfilling relationships, I was still hopeful.  I was hoping for companionship.  I hoped for someone to be playful with ... someone to laugh with me until our stomachs hurt and we can't catch our breath ... someone to talk with me in hushed tones as night wrapped it's dark mantle around our world ... someone who would realize that I sometimes I cry, and when I do , I need the comfort of arms around me, not rescuing ... someone who would see me as I am -- still respect and care for me after learning that at one time I was a whore for heroine and all that implies.  Was it all too much to ask?  Apparently so.

The killings didn't happen quickly.  It was ten years of slow deaths before I realized that he never intended making any of my dreams come true.  I looked down and there they were ... all my dreams, shattered and scattered over the corpse of my dignity.

I had slain many dragons in my lifetime only to have a tiny snake slither in and suck the life out of every dream that was waiting to hatch.  My undoing had come from someone who again and again promised me everything and less and less offered anything that resembled dreams come true or even love.

Did he think that if he killed all my dreams that I would be a broken woman?  If so. he was wrong.

Dreams are easily born ... in an instant.  Dreams are born with one glimpse of the purple-orange painted sky at sunset ... the sweet but mournful horn blast of a train in the distance ... the lilting laughter of a child running toward you ... the single tear on the cheek of a dearly loved friend.  Even the sheets gathered around my feet stir visions of snow covered hills, the sun sparkling off each mound and slope, the cold nipping at my cheeks, the air fresh and crisp, snow crunching in my hands as I pack a snowball to throw at someone -- dreams can be born anywhere, at any time.

I'll have dreams again ... new dreams, old dreams resurrected and made more dreamy ... even dreams I was once too frightened to dream.  This time ...

... this time, the only person responsible for making or breaking my dreams, will be me.