Nightmares

I've been having these nightmares.

They're becoming progressively worse.

And I'm quite sure they're all your fault.

I thrash around in our bed, whimpering and crying out at times.

But you wouldn't know.

You, Mike Dirnt, who goes out almost every night only to return in the early hours of the morning, reeking of liquor.

Every day I say a prayer, thanking God you made it home in one piece.

But the nightmares aren't about you.

They're about Joey.

At first they were just me playing my guitar and all of the sudden feeling like something had happened.

Something bad.

I had that dream a few times, just like that except the bad feelings hit me harder each time.

Then I had a dream where the bad feelings were centered on Joey.

And in the next one a phone rang.

And in the next one I answered.

The next took place in the kitchen. I'd just picked up the phone, and now I was finally going to see who was calling.

I recognized the voice as Adrienne's. My dear ex-wife, who I left for you. My love for you was just so much stronger than my love for her.

But now, when I watch you through the window, puffing on cigarette after cigarette as though you're trying to die as soon as you can, I start to miss the old days when I had someone who really cared about me.

Back to my nightmares.

I hear Adrienne's voice through the slick white telephone.

"Billie Joe?"

"Adie? Is something wrong?"

"It's about Joey."

And then I woke up, upset about wasting my time asking if anything was wrong.

I knew something was wrong.

I knew it was about Joey.

I just didn't know what about Joey was wrong.

I told myself that the next night I would skip that question.

The next night was when it really began to get bad.

It started as they all did. Playing my guitar when the bad feelings hit. Phone rings and I'm suddenly in the kitchen. Adrienne's voice.

"Billie Joe?"

This time I cut right to the chase.

"What happened to Joey?"

She doesn't seem taken aback by the fact that I know it's about him.

It's only a dream, after all.

"Car accident. He was hit."

I woke up in tears.

I didn't dream for a few days after that. I thought they had passed.

I was wrong.

"Hit? Is he alright?"

"It was a hummer. Head-on."

"What does that mean?"

I woke up screaming those words.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, BILLIE JOE! I'M TRYING TO FUCKING SLEEP!

I think that was the first time you hit me when you were sober.

The next night I slept out on the couch, just in case.

"A hummer. Head-on."

"What does that mean."

"He's dead."

"What the fuck're you crying for?" You asked me.

I couldn't stop.

The next night was when I was finally able to connect the dreams to you.

"He's dead."

"When did it happen?"

I was always so shocked to hear the news, even if I knew it was coming.

"Yesterday. Drunk driver."

Another pause in the dreams.

Instead of my morning prayer for you, I began to pray that the horrid nightmares would never return.

But they did.

I wasn't playing guitar in my bedroom.

I wasn't in the kitchen with a phone in my hand.

I was somewhere these dreams had never taken me- a cemetery.

Everyone around me was crying. I watched as they lowered a casket into a hole in the earth.

A casket that held the lifeless body of my first-born child.

I turned and the setting changed- a courtroom.

I sat next to Adrienne, who was still wearing her dress from the funeral. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"What are we doing here?"I whispered to her.

"The driver, Billie Joe. Look, he's up there now."

She pointed to the witness stand and my face fell as I looked into those piercing blue eyes.

Your piercing blue eyes.

"Mike…"

"Yes, Billie Joe?"

I opened my eyes to see you hovering over me. You looked concerned and I knew why; I could feel the tears in my eyes.

"Why're you sleeping on the couch?"

I expected him to at least notice after almost a week.

"You were crying in your sleep… What's wrong, baby?"

Your hand caressed my cheek and I pushed it off. I stood and shoved you away, glaring through even more tears. "Don't you fucking call me that."

You looked so confused; so innocent.

But I knew it was bullshit.

"I thought you loved it when-"

I shoved you again. "Just shut the fuck up, you fucking murderer!"

Now I couldn't blame you for your look of bewilderment. "Murderer? Billie, I think your nightmares are getting a little-"

"Get the hell away from me, you stupid drunk!"

"Billie…"

I pulled my elbow back and threw my hand forward, my fist hitting your face so hard that blood flowed heavily from your nose. Before your mind was even able to process the first blow I was delivering a second one to your stomach. My knee flew up in a classic defense move, driving right up into your groin. You groaned and doubled over, making it easy for me to shove you back onto the ground.

"Fuck, Billie!"

I slammed my foot down on your chest. "That's for every fucking time you hit me." I kicked you hard in the side. "Every fucking word you said to me." Crushed your fingers with the heel of my black chuck taylors. "Every fucking drop of alcohol you ever fucking drank!" I kicked your hand away and kicked your groin with everything I had.

Your eyes closed and I could see that you were in too much pain to even whimper. I calmly made my way to our room, where I threw some of my stuff into a bag. I wrote down my new cell phone number- the one you were never able to remember- and stapled it to your earlobe. I went out into the kitchen and picked up the phone that had haunted me, dialing an ambulance. You seemed unconscious as I dragged you out to the front porch where I told them they would be able to find you. I hopped in my car and drove off before I could even hear the sirens.

You called me about three weeks later. I'd been relaxing in a nice hotel; a well-deserved vacation. I brought Jakob and Joey there to play a few times, explaining my living situation by telling Adrienne that you and I were going through a rough patch and needed some time away.

I was surprised to find that your voice almost brought tears to my eyes.

You sounded as though you'd been defeated.

I went back to the house and helped take care of you. I was happy to find you were safe and healing quickly. Neither of us spoke of what had happened. You were grateful to me, loving even, and I soaked it all in.

We were happy together after that. Making love and cuddling and spending quality time together like we had before.

You never touched alcohol. You threw anything alcoholic we had in our house away. I enjoyed drinking from time to time, but I wasn't about to stop you. You now seemed to hate it just as much as I'd grown to.

And the nightmares went away.