Coming back

We hardly spoke on our way back to London. I was looking out of the window at the seemingly endless road, sometimes casting stealthy glances at dad's profile – his eyes were fixed on the road, he looked as serious as never before and it was for the first time that I felt some a sort of estrangement from him, as if suddenly an invisible wall appeared between us. I moved to the back seat. I wanted to sit at the right side of the car. ‘D’you feel like taking a nap?’ dad asked ‘Go ahead! It's a long way to go!’ I didn't say anything in reply, secretly counting the oncoming cars – it's a strange habit, I know, but that's just me. Then, all of a sudden, I remembered a weird dream I had when I was either five or six. It was one of those nearly plotless dreams that leave the unpleasant aftertaste of anxiety rather than visual images. I was in a park, I believe, which looked similar to Berkeley, but as it always is with this kind of nightmares, it wasn't Berkeley. There was snow all around. In reality I've never seen so much snow in London. I’m wearing my cream-colored Bonpoint coat and a striped scarf, the paths around me remind of a labyrinth and I’m scared to get lost for I’m sure I don't know the place. I see dad and mom somewhere at a distance and I think or at least I want to think they see me too. Then I notice a stranger, he is just passing by, not even looking in my direction, but I’m scared to death he will take me with him. My parents don't seem to notice me and I feel the approaching fear of despair seize me and I can't do anything about it. That's all. No outcome. Nothing. Everything just remained suspended and the air around me got as thick as jelly. In the morning I woke up with the rotten felling of being lost and unwanted. It evaporated after some time. Sure it did. But a drop of venom was still in, somewhere deep inside and now it let know of itself again.