When a Terrible Dream Becomes a Terrible Reality, Raw Instinct Takes Over

The dream is familiar, at least among women. I am being chased down a dark street. I am running and running, but the man in pursuit is catching up. Suddenly, I am caught. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I wake up panting and terrified.

The dream has made me doubt that I could count on myself if I were threatened.

Like most women who work and conduct a social life in Los Angeles, there are times when I go about the city alone at night. Sometimes I feel a little frightened. But, I remind myself at those times, I can’t lock myself up in my apartment and stay home every night. And I know the rules: I try to walk quickly and look purposeful. I keep aware of the surroundings. I have my keys ready for the door.

One recent evening, I left a meeting around 11 p.m. and walked to my car, which was parked on a side street near the Los Angeles Convention Center. This area always makes me nervous, so I made sure I walked with friends. I left them at the corner and approached my dew-dampened car. I turned the lock and swung open the door. Then I froze. There was a man in my car.

For a moment, we just looked at one another. He was seated on the opposite side and I could not see his face. But I could tell by his silhouette that he was young. I stepped back. And then, miracle of miracles, this sound came out of me.

It seemed to come straight from my chest, near my pounding heart. It screeched over my vocal cords and out into the night air. There was no question about it, it was a scream. And it was followed by another, and another.

At the same time, I was running back toward my friends. The man sat in my car for another minute. Then he got out and ran down the street.

I keep reliving this relatively cheap lesson in urban living. I keep seeing that kid’s silhouette, slightly turned toward me. I’ve often wondered whether, if I had seen his expression, he might have looked almost as frightened as I did.

I have vacuumed all the glass scattered in the back seat from the window he broke to let himself in. The heater knobs and air conditioner have been replaced and the vents put back in order on the console that he pried open to get at the radio. The window is new. And I’ve washed the car meticulously. I hate the idea of his fingerprints on something I might touch.

But what keeps rolling through my mind over and over again is not the vision of the faceless man or his invasion of my car. It is the sound, the scream. It seemed to come out of a stranger. It did not generate from the thinking human being that usually accompanies me as I go about my life. This was from some uncivilized cousin of a pursued animal. It was primordial. It tore out of my throat as if it were the possession of something wild and untamed.

Since then I have asked my friends, “Have you ever screamed? I mean really screamed? Not on a roller coaster, or in delight, but in alarm?” None of them had. And they all said the same thing. They wondered if they could.

Now I know I can.