The explosion threw me at least ten feet through the air to land crumpled and writhing in pain on the fractured asphalt. My face and legs are scraped and bleeding, my back is wrenched, and my left arm appears broken. I wipe the tears and blood out of my eyes and look around. The parking lot is littered with cars tossed like toys. Trees are toppled, the pavement is shattered, and, oh my God, my three-story apartment building has collapsed!

I sit in the desolation, terrified and confused, as muffled, desperate screams arise from the rubble that had been my home just a few minutes earlier.

What is going on? I didn’t hear an explosion and south Florida isn’t prone to earthquakes.

Then, vague memories begin to form, and I scramble behind an overturned car in a panic. I realize that my attempt to flee the impending winds is pointless, but I drag my broken body toward the safest place I can find anyway.

No, this cannot be happening again. It isn’t real! Wake up, Jeannette. Wake up!

The gale-force winds strike, as expected, and I cower behind my automotive windbreak crying. I have no idea what is causing this destruction or why. However, I know what will occur next, and I don't want to witness that horrific sight again. Instead, I focus on my immediate war-torn surroundings as the winds blowing from behind me hurl signs, trash, wood, plants, and other debris past. I feel my bile rise in my throat as a man's blood-soaked shirt momentarily gets caught on the bumper before flapping away into the distance like a damned soul racing to hell.

My gaze follows it, disappearing into the west, and I witness the horror I had feared. The entire western horizon is flaming orange from the Earth to the heavens. This inferno is no ordinary wildfire racing toward me. The atmosphere appears to be ablaze miles into the sky, and the winds keep increasing as though the Devil himself is sucking the world into his gaping maw. I know what will happen, although I don't know why, so I close my eyes, brace for the inevitable doom, and pray.

“Aaaaaaaah!” I scream as I jerk upright in bed, momentarily blinded by the bright morning sunlight with my head throbbing in pain. I desperately pat my bedsheets and survey my bedroom through squinting eyes, trying to confirm that my world is whole. Satisfied that I am awake and secure in my apartment, I collapse back onto my pillow.

Dammit, Jeannette, what is wrong with you? Thirty-eight-year-old women don’t have nightmares. You aren’t some child, scared of monsters under your bed. Get a grip, girl!

Last night was the third time that I dreamt of the same nightmare. There must be some underlying cause, but I can't identify it. I haven't eaten any spicy food. I have a well-paying job that I enjoy for a change. The local and world news are no better or worse than ever and, while living as a black woman always has challenges, nothing out of the ordinary has happened to me lately.

Breaking up with Jamal last month is the only personal life change I know, but it is more of a stress reduction. Sure, I miss our physical relationship, but I am mostly glad his bullshit is out of my life. I am generally happier than I can remember being in years. There has to be some other cause, but I can't waste any more time worrying about it. I need to hurry, or I'll miss class.

An hour later, I'm showered, dressed, fed, and locking my front door. My bed is made, and my apartment is tidy. I dislike cleaning but hate living in a messy apartment. Having an orderly home is yet another benefit of dumping that slob of a boyfriend. I smile for the first time this morning and walk toward the elevator.

I live on the third floor of an apartment complex in Boca Raton, Florida. The apartments all open onto exterior walkways, in an arrangement typical in south Florida, and most of us use the central elevator rather than the stairs. However, I overhear someone mention my name while waiting for the doors to open. Peering over the railing, I see a shabbily-dressed, middle-eastern man with tousled hair asking one of my neighbors about me. My neighbor is confused by the stranger using my first name, Eve, rather than the middle name I prefer. I quickly decide to walk down the stairwell at the far end of my balcony today and hurry to my car without a backward glance. I notice the man knocking on my apartment door as I drive away and feel a chill wash down my back.

It’s three-thirty, and I’ve been sitting in my parking space with my car idling for the past fifteen minutes. I haven’t seen the stranger since returning from class and the store, but I’m still nervous about going home. I don’t completely understand my apprehension nor why I feel as though my privacy has been violated. However, I wait one more minute to confirm that my stalker is not around and attempt to analyze my situation.

School was as dull as usual, but it did suggest a potential cause for my night terrors. I’ve been taking one class per term at the local community college and hate the subject. I only started the program to make my dad happy. After spending the last twenty years working in hospitality and retail, which are Boca terms for bussing tables, stocking shelves, and cashing out customers, Dad desperately wanted me to find a “real career.” I obliged him by enrolling in an associate degree program in Information Technology three years ago and continued the program out of guilt after he died. Tomorrow is the second anniversary of Dad’s death and, while I’m not sure why this is giving me nightmares, it is the only stressful event I know.

But now, it’s time to put away my groceries, shower, change, and leave for work. I can’t afford to be late to the restaurant, so I swallow hard and open my car door.