I stare out the bedroom window, afraid to go to sleep. Nightmares lurk in the shadows of my bedroom, waiting like hungry wolves to tear my sanity apart.

"If I don't get a decent night's sleep soon, I'll go insane," I tell the empty room. My husband has been called away on a late night service call down to the river. One of the tug boats is leaking water into the engine room.

The growl of distant thunder is comforting, although I don't know why. Still, I roll over and over, unable to rest.

Reality dreams I call them. Terror seems inadequate to describe these vivid scenes I live in my sleep. Nightmares so real, I can still feel the actual touch of the rapist on my body as I wake, screaming. Last night, I woke still smelling the smoke from the dream-fire burning my house down with my family inside. It took my husband ages to calm me down.

It is twenty-eight years since I was raped. A lifetime. Why can't I stop being afraid?

I turn to face the wall, and utter a hoarse prayer. Even my vocal cords are affected by this paralysing fear.

"Please, God, help me."

Thrashing, I turn and stare once more out the window. My eyes widen and I stare. In the thunder-stricken dark sky, a gap is forming.

Moonlight streams through this empty space in the shape of a soaring white dove, hovering over my home.

Gazing at this beautiful phenonemon, peace flows through my body, and after a while, I close my eyes and sleep.

There are no nightmares.