Night Terrors

I would wake up in the middle of the night; a cold sweat drenching my sheets, gasping for air, my hands racing defensively to my throat. In these brief moments that fallowed, I would always realize two things; one: it all had been a nightmare, a terrible nightmare, and two: the three figures standing at the foot of my bed hadn't disappeared with the scenery, they had fallowed me out.
These figures, I knew them too well. Two were men silhouettes and one was female. It wasn't all to surprising how well I knew them, I saw them every night. I would always be running from them in a dark, eerie familiar place. But they would always reach me, pin me down, and begin to choke the life from me. Even after I woke, the pressure around my throat was real and would linger in bruises, and those figures would still be there, staring at me.
Doctors called them night terrors. They said they weren't uncommon for children and young teenagers who had recently lost their parents. Only, these started the night of my sixteenth birthday, two weeks before their death.