Stumbled onto a documentary of 30 years of Friday the 13th and memories of A Nightmare on Elm Street found its way into my head. Freddy Krueger was my nightmare ~21 years ago. A night I refused to go to bed unless I had my father next to me, a night my 9 year old brother assured me of his protection. Memories, like dreams in our sleep, comes in puzzles, many times vaguely. Recollecting only bits and pieces of images, senses almost forgotten, mostly lost. Standing outside the room, I peeked through the slightly tilted door and there were them, and me. The blue parquet wood built-in wardrobes, the cream-colored rough plaster walls, the windows made of ~6x15 inches glass panels and everything else I cannot remember. I would hide behind the curtains and spy on the neighbors passing, I would build my fortress and imagine David. The hidden stash my father kept from my mother, the maroon couch I laid watching Tv, the day I sat next to my unborn younger brother, the days I thought swallowed orange seeds would grow a tree from my belly button, the night a Gremlin held on to me persistently, the fights between my parents and an absent brother, the ghost loitering in flight outside the kitchen window, the day I locked myself in the showers away from the cane and my father, the morning I pretended to be ill to skip kindergarten, things here and there. I have not been to that flat for more than a decade but I had been visiting without realizing...