I Escaped, But Only Just:  Part 1: A Recurring Dream

Buildings resembling cashew nuts. A church spire, matching in colour. A hill. I float restlessly, down the hill, past the brown-reddish buildings.  
 
The people have come for me. After all these years, they've tracked me down. They find me in the front room of a house.  My home.
 
It's over. The ringleader strikes me across the face. A backhander. It's years since anyone did that.  
 
They leave. Or, at least, I think they do. Nothing seems certain anymore.  
 
A few houses down, people sit in a square or a circle, praying.  
 
Afterwards, these people tell me they've prayed for me all week, their concern mounting with each day. I nod, exhausted, and thank them. Their prayers haven't stopped the ringleader from striking me, and I can still picture the damp red buildings on the hill.  
 
And then, I awake.
 
 
I come to with a jolt, body taut with tension. The bedroom light is on; I've got used to leaving it on. I half sit up in the hastily-made bed, wearing clothes from earlier.  
 
Silence.  
 
I listen out for a car engine. Voices.  
 
I rest my head on my hand, the aftertaste of cigarettes lingering. I'm totally alone.  
 
My room faces the front.  I imagine shattering glass.
 
Once before, they came to the house. That was during my A level year, when I lived in my home town. I hid in a corner of the dining room. The doorbell rang and I perched against a cabinet, holding my breath as the ringing continued. I pictured the ringleader going in through the back, climbing the garden fence. And then, the bell had rung again.  
 
I roll a cigarette from the stubs in the impromptu ashtray and take take long drags, coughing as the smoke grates my throats and gets deep into my lungs. The glare from the light hurts my eyes, but I'm too afraid to sleep without it.
 
Outside, the night lingers. The minutes tick by on the electronic clock without making a sound.  
 
Finally, I drift into an exhausted sleep.