Who Are You?

'I had the dream again, Mummy'
'Oh love.'
Warmness enveloped me, arms protecting me from the nightmare. It went something like this:
An old man, white hair jutting out at every angle, appears. He walks towards our house and he's angry, his face contorted with what looks like hate. Instinctively I want to hide, but we jump into our little yellow car, bustled to go faster by an anxious Dad. I don't know why and something about the worry in his eyes means I don't ask. It's urgent we leave. Now.
Then we're driving fast. I can see the miles of road whizzing by and, in an improbable dream view, I can see the man behind us in a large blue car. He can't catch us, but he's there, always there. It's my first memory of being afraid, an indistinct, imprecise fear of something I don't really understand.

The warmth of my mother's embrace lifted the tense knot and I relaxed into her.
'Is it today?'
For weeks her answer has been the same, 'No love, not today'.
This morning she hesitated, 'Yes love, ' she eventually says.

Fiercely I hid my face in her shawl, commanding tears to stop, halt where they sat on the edge of my lower lid.
'Who is he, Mummy? Who is he? '
'Oh love. He's just a nightmare. He's no one. '
Years later, the dream haunts me still. That same grip of terror, being chased, I know not why or by whom. Always I try to scream, to shout, but I am silent. And never, not once have I confronted and asked 'who are you? '