Bart having a horrible nightmare about Bob and Marge calming him down and telling him he'll be okay and that he's safe
Of course! Here you go:
He was drowning. That was the only thought to cross through his mind as Bart Simpson tossed and turned with discomfort, trying to fight the tightness growing in his chest as he was slowly but surely suffocating. He was being held there, in the space where he was unable to breathe, and although his eyes were closed, his body enveloped in a pitch black void, he could hear that maniacal laughter radiating from all around him, aimed at his unfortunate state of being. It was him, Sideshow Bob doing this, but how?
He struggled, trying to find where those hands were that were holding him down beneath the water. If he could just bite and scratch at them, surely he’d be able to fight to the surface and breathe, but there was nothing tangible to latch onto - nothing holding him down except sheer willpower and invisible force of that man’s hatred toward him. It sent him into a spiraling panic where the tightness of his lungs expedited his situation, and he could feel the end was about to come in a burst of gasps, then darkness.
The gasps did come, but they came when he kicked outward and jolted himself upward. His leg had urged the boy to come out of his deep sleep, and Bart found himself sitting straight up in his bed upon his awakening, the lights of his television strobing in the darkness, illuminating the beads of sweat on his skin. He panted and felt himself to see if he was even real. He was, and he was alive. His throat was dry and scratchy, and his heart was racing a hundred miles a minute, but he was alive. He was okay…
He glanced around the room to get his bearings. Itchy and Scratchy reruns played on low volume as the hours ticked on toward 2am. That explained it.
It was just a dream...just a dream…
Bart used the sleeve of his pajamas to wipe away the sweat that threatened to get into his eyes, and he felt tears he didn’t even know were there get wiped away along with them. He had to slow his breathing before he really did start crying. What a nightmare that was...
His thoughts were interrupted when a soft knock came from his door, and he looked over to see his mom poke her head into the room.
“Sweetie, your father and I can hear you fussing. Are you okay?”
Before he could answer, Marge Simpson looked over to the TV still playing cartoons, and her look of worry for her son turned to a mild irritant at his disobedience of the house rules. She made her way into the room where she took the remote off his bedside table and turned off the screen. The only light now came from the moon outside, and it framed the two of them in distorted panels as Marge sat down on the edge of his bed.
“Bart, we told you no TV after bedtime.”
“Sorry, Mom. I must have fallen asleep and forgot to turn it off.” That was a lie.
Marge let out a soft groan in her throat while she pulled up the sleeve of her robe to feel his forehead with the back of her hand. Her worry returned, and her demeanor softened once again.
“Oh, sweetie, you’re burning up…You’re not getting sick are you?”
Usually, he’d tell her yes in hopes it meant a day off school, but his nightmare of being killed by Sideshow Bob was still fresh in his mind, and he felt it was making him delirious. As such, he told her no.
“Well, I’ll check again in the morning to see if you have a fever, but you go right to bed, young man, and no more falling asleep watching those violent cartoons. They’ll give you nightmares.”
Bart’s fingers gripped his bed sheets as Marge stood up to lay him back down on his pillow. She fluffed the edges of them and gave him a gentle, motherly kiss on the forehead. Before she pulled away, he stopped her by holding out his hand to take her wrist.
“Mom, wait. If I ask you to do something for me, do you promise not to tell Lisa or Homer?”
“Oh, of course, sweetie. You know whatever happens between us is just between us.”
“Then...can you make me some warm milk with cinnamon and talk to me about when you were a kid again?”
Marge took her seat back on the bed and pulled her son close to her side. “Oh, sweetie...you haven’t asked me to do that since you were still little.” And whenever he did make those requests, it was due to those early childhood intense fears and wanting something comforting and distracting. It could only mean one thing.
“Did you have a bad dream tonight?”
Bart nodded and leaned against her, wrapping his arms around her in hopes no one else in the family would come in and see him being this much of a baby about it. But he couldn’t help it - the trauma attached to the nightmares - and to Bob himself - manifested in his world outside of his subconscious, and that itself was terrifying enough for a child. The man was unpredictable, and for all he knew, it was a premonition about being drowned by him in a lake and not the side effect of violent cartoons. How would he know the difference?
But Marge’s soft shushes lulled most of those fears away as she ran her fingers through his hair and gave him several reassuring pets on the back of his hand.
“There, there, Bart. It’ll be okay. Those bad dreams can’t hurt you.”
“But they felt so real.”
“I know they can be, sweetie. I’ve had a lot of dreams like that growing up, and sometimes I still get them.”
“You do?”
“Sure do. In fact, I had a lot of them when I was pregnant with you, and you know what I did?”
“What?”
“I’d get up, and I’d make myself some warm milk with cinnamon.” She bent over to kiss his head. “Do you want to stay in bed or come downstairs with me to make it?”
“I’ll stay here...but Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.” She gave him another reassuring hug and kiss and got up to make him his late night drink. As soon as she left, Bart sat back against his pillow and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips.
He can’t hurt me...he can’t hurt me...everything is going to be okay...everything is going to be okay…
He took a deep breath and sighed out, thinking about the warm milk about to come his way. Just the thought alone was bringing him fond memory sensors of its taste and smell, and how comforting they were when he was younger when his mom brought them to him. Back when she was the only beacon of warmth and safety in his whole world. Those feelings within those memories gave him much needed ease. He found himself able to relax a little more now, knowing she was here, that she was awake to help him through this, like she always had.
As soon as she came back upstairs, Bart would have to remind himself to tell her again how much he really, really loved her.
