You hate me

The right arm was mangled again. Mine, that is. Some kind of tendon or muscle or arm gut tethered the forearm to the elbow. Most of the fingers had been ripped away, and the remainder was a bloody, stumpy mess that was barely recognizable as my arm. Still, I wanted to keep it, so I held onto it with the left hand while I tried to run to safety. I heard the whoosh of bricks and wood as they flew past my head. I might have been breathing  in fire, or perhaps it was the heavy plumes of smoke that burned my lungs.

Dark clouds rolled into my periphery. It took a moment for me to realize I was suffering some sort of weird tunnel vision. I could only see a small circle of asphalt under my feet. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping over gremlins. When I finally did fall, it was you who caught me.

I rolled away from you, cradling the damaged arm against my stomach. It had been you who had broken it in the other dream. Had you returned to wrench it away completely?

You dragged me across the lot, ignoring the rocks and twigs and other detritus that were pressing into my tender skin. I didn't want to see you. I couldn't stand to think of the rage you were feeling. I didn't want to see the anguish in your eyes.

You lifted me up. For a moment, just a small moment, I thought you would embrace me, and I was happy, relieved, even. But that was just a brief moment. The bestial cry that came from somewhere deep inside you (or maybe it was from me. Thinking back, I can't be sure) frightened me back to reality. I couldn't look you in the eyes.

I went blind just before you tossed me over the edge.