Ossama Soffar It was a dream but, strangely, not a nightmare. I hold a giant knife in the kitchen and tell my girlfriend that I had dreamed of slaughtering her. I ask her to put on a red two-piece nightgown to complete the picture exactly as I had seen in my dream. She smiles, emphasizing the same wish. “Cut me into small pieces and then devour me to run in your blood,” she says with a tremble. The knife in my hand trembles too, especially when I see her rushing to the wardrobe, undressing, and then wearing only the two pieces. I approach her, assuring her that I will start. I put my hand on her neck. She pushes me gently toward the bed and lays with her head on my knee and touches me with her tiny hands; I thrust my hand with the knife towards her neck. Her little girl knocks on the door. She screams at the child that she is busy now and looks at me, apologizing for disturbing me. As I tell her the dream, she laughs like I have never seen her laugh before. Then she cries.
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