No Bullshit I was only nine the first time I had that dream. At that time, I had no idea what it meant. Or what would mean one day, to be more precise. As expected. The blinding white lights, the car horn wrecking the unnatural silence, the squealing of the breaks and the darkness that fell afterwards were nothing but a dreadful nightmare. A nightmare like any other of the many I had every night. At least that’s how it felt that very first time I have almost come to feel nostalgic about. Oh, that blessed innocence that made a nine-year-old frightened girl go back to sleep without giving it further thought. Over time, other dreams, and also other nightmares, made me forget about that one in particular. I don’t remember how long it took for it to come back, for me to wake up at the sound of the horn and the tyres melting and the metal and glass scattering all throughout the pavement. I must acknowledge that not even then did I pay much attention. After all, it was not the first time at all that one of the episodes of "Dreadful Nightmares Catalogue" had a rerun on "SleepTV". Every few months at first, then every few days, that car would skid and mow me down. The moment came when it wasn’t even scary anymore. I would see it draw closer, at maximum speed, that car whose colour I could never remember when I woke up, and I would welcome it with arms open, knowing that once it knocked me down everything would go dark. Just that. Dark. Then, the clumsy, awkwardly painted white lines under my feet, the smell of burning rubber and the sound of that damned horn would make way to another episode. A "Nice Dreams Catalogue" episode, if I were lucky. I even got to wish, at bedtime, they were rerunning "You’re run over by a car" on "SleepTV", instead of "You get eaten by cannibals in a far off place", "A serial killer wants you dead", or "There’s a malevolent spirit in your house". I guess I had grown used to it, and it seemed to be far more unlikely than being chased through dark woods by a madman with a chainsaw, or having my reflection in the mirror coming alive and attacking me. That was before I met you. You had nothing to do with it, I think, but it suddenly felt as if I could now hear the horn and the squealing of the breaks taking over my every sense. I didn’t need to be asleep anymore. You’re run over by a car was now live on "DaydreamTV", where there used to be pictures and movie clips of the good times yet to come exclusively. I clearly remember that evening on the phone. I was sitting, legs crossed, in my sister’s bedroom floor, as always. I can’t recall what we were talking about before, or after —maybe you do, you were always better at details than me—, but what I do know is that you were the first person I told about it all. “I’m going to be run over by a car and die”, I said. “That’s bullshit”, you answered. “No bullshit”, I assured you, “I’ve dreamt it. I’ve been dreaming about it since I was nine. Always the same. Before I turn nineteen, I’ll get run over by a car and die”. You didn’t ask me how I had reached the conclusion that my dream was not just that. You probably knew, the same way you knew all those things no one had told you. I’m sure you also knew that car was already setting its gears in motion and that the moment of our encounter was coming closer, unstoppable. I bet you were even aware of the result of the crash. And yet you let me believe I was going to die.