It didn't matter that Michael got me. The silent, baron land of my dreams would've driven me mad anyway. Sure, getting ripped to pieces by your zombified long-dead husband in a dream does suck, but at least it woke me up. I wasn't sure if I would've woken if it hadn't happened, and I guess I should be glad for that.
There I go, trying to look on the bright side, trying to distract myself from the crap that really happened. Well, it didn't happen, but my mind came up with that without me even trying. Not that I would've tried to think about that anyway. I'm rambling.
I woke up from my dream in cold sweats, and I had to peel several layers of damp clothes off of me before I recovered. I had to bite on my hand to stop myself from sceaming at one point, and I felt so vulnerable. In a world full of people abandoning me and the dead trying to rip the flesh from my bones, even my own mind had turned against me. I remember hearing that if you die in your dreams, you die in real life. That's probably bullshit, but to be honest I felt like I'd died, or at least parts of me had withered away. What did the dream even mean? Should I not have gone home and taken Michael's stuff? Should I have done things differently when the shit hit the fan? Who knows. I didn't want to think about it. My main priority was to get out of this hole before I started to panic.