Seeing him again petrified me. I couldn't believe it was really happening. Well, it wasn't, but it all felt so real. I was dreaming, but I was controlling what was happening as if I was really there, and nothing was blatantly artificial. The only thing that made me realise it was a dream was of course, that my dead husband was there and alive, living, breathing and talking again - and that couldn't possibly happen.
It started with me waking up in bed, wrapped up like a caterpillar in our duvet. I woke with a smile on my face that grew wider as I saw a note taped to my bedside table, saying 'Gone to get breakfast, be back soon - M x x x'. He often left me notes like this on lazy Saturdays while he sneaked off preparing something sweet for the both of us. I grabbed the note and put it to my face, beaming at the preciousness and importance of it. A recent note, from a man I loved more than anything that had been taken from me a long time ago. It was silly how much it meant to me now, as I would have just thought it was cute before he died.
It wasn't long until he returned carrying a tray full of all the cliché breakfast-in-bed foods. His short hair was scruffed up, his chin was covered with stubble and the concentration on his face as he walked towards the bed was hilarious.
"I won't make a mess with it again, I promise!" he laughed, trying to steady the tray. The orange juice in a glass was splashing everywhere. True, he had a habit of spilling everything when he did this for me, but it didn't make me love him any less. I took the tray and gazed up at him, not worrying about why he was here but just embracing the moment.
"It's perfect," I breathed, "Don't worry about it."
He climbed into bed next to me and tucked into his breakfast, and so did I.
It wasn't much, but it was a beautiful moment for me. Even the simple things between me and him were fond memories, and reliving this one was wonderful. Up until he turned on the tv.
I was smacked in the face with reality, as I saw the news broadcasts I'd seen not weeks ago flood into my dream. Except this time, I was paying attention, and I had Michael with me. I didn't want to relive what was going on now - this was my dream, my haven, the one place I could be without having to face the terror in the world now - and it was being bombarded by the truth. I looked over at Michael to see his reaction to the stories appearing on TV, and saw him lying down on his back, facing away. I touched his hand and jerked mine back quickly as I realised how cold he was. He looked thinner than just moments ago, and he wasn't moving. When I said reality had hit, I wasn't far off.
Michael was dead again, taken from me once more. I'd just started to feel happy and then he was snatched away from me, leaving me alone and terrified again. I wanted to cry, weep, scream, but I simply couldn't. I was faced with the task of looking after myself again, preparing for the coming apocalypse and trying my best to survive - but at least now I had a headstart.