We are in the Roydon Drive West house - the house where I grew up - but the house is different from the one I remember: it is larger and more open. In my dream mind, the interior reflects an upper middle class background, not the lower middle class one I associate with my youth.
I am walking through the house performing some sort of inspection: each door and window must be secure. As I do this a voiceover is playing. The annnouncer, in a firm and authoratative voice, extolls the virtues of a commercial security system.
Late afternon. I still do not feel secure. The kitchen is too dark.
My mother is at the stove, her back turned to me, her arms crossed in front. She is weeping, her upper body slowly shaking with each sob.
I walk to her and place my hand on her shoulder and realize that something is wrong with her body. Her arms and hands have been horribly burned. I ask her who this to her but she can't answer me. I know that we must leave the house; it is not secure. But I am afraid to move.
