Swallowed by Night

So, for my English class, I have to read Night by Elie Wiesel. I do not like reading about the Holocaust, because I am prone to nightmares. I don’t mean the fun kind, where you’re on a ship with Odysseus passing under Scylla and you know you’re going to wake up, because it’s a nightmare based off of ancient fiction. This is the kind of nightmare that you know real people lived and died, and there are pictures and film to prove it. Yes, the night I read the book, I dreamed that my school had gone Third Reich Etc Etc. I told my dad about it, and I thought he had payed enough attention to my fears of hunger and cold and genocide and fire that were ripe after reading Night. At this moment, I’m writing an essay for my class about Elie losing his strong faith in God. (I think I’m losing faith, too, but that’s beside the point.) I asked my dad for help, and he asked what the book was about. Yeah, so, it’s one book among many, but when I told him that my nightmare described it perfectly for any non-participant in the Holocaust, he hadn’t the slightest clue as to what I was talking about. “What? I do not remember you telling me about a dream in which all of your friends were being eaten alive by flames and you were dying of of starvation and hypothermia and you were being swallowed by the endless Night.”
Maybe I’m making a mountain out of a mole hill, but I am offended. Hurt, even. Wounded.