Nightmare

It’s dark. Or maybe I just have my eyes shut. I can’t tell. I can’t feel anything. I can hear something, though. A kind of squishing, shuffling sound. I don’t like it. It sounds dirty. Dirty sounds.

Light. Can’t see anything. Sounds stop. Silence. The light fades. It’s my room. I’m sitting on my bed, staring at the wall. The lamp is on. I must’ve turned it on. That must’ve been the light. Makes sense, lamps make light. When the lamp was off, it was dark. Then I turned it on, and it was light. I understand.

The curtains are closed. They’re dirty. Dirty curtains. In fact, they don’t look like my curtains. These curtains are ripped. Ripped and torn. Torn and ripped. Now that I think of it, this doesn’t feel like my room. Doesn’t feel like my room at all. It looks like my room, but it doesn’t feel like my room. No. This is wrong. I don’t like it.

The sound’s started again. Dirty sounds. They’re coming from my closet. The mirror is dirty. I can barely see myself in it. Big splotches covering my face. My hair must look awful.

I open the closet a bit. The shuffling stops and I hear a low grunt. As the light permeates the closet, I can just make out a figure. Very small. Tall, but skinny. Too skinny. Sickly skinny. I don’t like it.

No colour. Black. Black figure. Except the eyes. White eyes. And big. Big eyes. They’re staring straight at me, from the back of my closet. I don’t remember my closet being this deep. The figure is against the back of the closet. Dark against dark. And white. White eyes, staring at me. I don’t like it.

The figure starts moving towards me. Only, not walking. Just moving. Like it’s on a little cart, being pulled along. Floating. Floating fast. Wide, white eyes. I don’t like it. Too fast.

I close the closet door just as it reaches the edge of the light. I hear a keening wail from inside. It hurts my ears. Loud. Too loud. Pain. The wailing stops, but the dirty sounds resume. I can hear bumping on the other side of the door. I don’t think I want to stay in this room anymore.

I move out into the hall. It’s dark. Everything’s dark, now. The light from my room has gone. My room has gone. Gone. Darkness again. I don’t like it.

I fumble forward, and hit a wall. No, a door. It has a doorknob. Must be a door, walls don’t have doorknobs. Doors have doorknobs. It opens easily to my touch. Light floods out. Too bright. Hurts my eyes. Pain.

It’s mum’s room. She isn’t there. Never there. Too bright. I move into the room. Feels wrong. Too happy. Mum’s room is never happy. Mum’s room is always yelling and hurt. No. I don’t like it.

The door slams. Mum’s here. She’s standing with her back to the door. She looks happy. This isn’t right.

“Hey honey,” she whispers, smiling at me. Why is she meeting my eyes? It hurts. Pain. Make it stop. “Come here, baby.” She reaches out for me. I move out of her reach, around the bed. She follows me. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” her voice is too light. Too happy. No. This is wrong. She reaches for me again. I move back.

Her face changes. Not much, but I can tell. I can always tell. Her smile becomes fixed. “Your mother told you to do something, Liam,” she whispers. Her eyes change. They change colour. Red. Red eyes. Then the red overflows. Red streaming down her face. Red from her eyes.

She reaches for me again. I clamber over the bed, moving backwards towards the door. Her face changed again. Not happy anymore. Sad. Sad and angry. This looks right. Doesn’t feel right, though. Not right. Wrong. I don’t like it.

“Why won’t you come to your mother, Liam?” she says softly, a sob following. More red. Red tears. Blood. Blood from her eyes. Dripping onto the carpet. Dirty carpet, too. No. Wrong. “Liam?” she says again, her voice rising. No. Not anymore.

I slip out the door and close it behind me, cutting off her rising scream of “Liam!” It hurts. My chest hurts. I sink down against the door, my arms curled around myself. Everything feels wrong. Pain.

Dark again. Not for long. Fog. Mist and fog. Fog and mist. Misty fog. Lots of it. More figures. Lots more. Not skinny. Normal. All of them normal. But no colour. Black. One of them bumps into me. It barely notices, but then it directs its attention towards me. I think. All black. Can’t tell.

Then its mouth opens. Dark mouth. Not black, dark. Can see it against the rest of the figure. It laughs. It gets bigger, soaring above me. Green. Green fog from its mouth. It laughs loud. The other figures notice. They come over and laugh too. Sky goes green from their mouths. Green sky. No. I don’t like it. Sky shouldn’t be green. They’re ruining the sky.

I have to save the sky. They’ll ruin it. I’ll kill them. That’ll help. Then they won’t turn the sky green anymore. Metal. Metal in my hand. A gun. Big gun. I’ll kill them. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll save the sky.

I shoot the first figure. It gasps, coughing black fog. Then it collapses. The other figures stop laughing. They stare down at me. My arm is tired. I can’t hold the gun anymore. They’re coming. I need to kill them. But I can’t hold the gun. I need to kill them.

The figures fall on me in a mass. I’m pinned beneath them. They’re heavy. So heavy. I can’t feel my body. My vision is consumed by their writhing bodies.

Darkness. Then light. Bright light again. I rub my eyes. They hurt. I hurt. Pain.

The light is a figure. A figure of light. It’s big. Bigger than me. It laughs at me, and dark fog obscures the light. Another figure. Black. Skinny. White eyes. The figure from my closet. It’s here too. It’s standing by me. I want to hold it. I move to. It moves away from me. Away from me. Toward the light. The light laughs louder, and the dark joins in. The dark turns light. And not skinny. Not skinny anymore. They laugh at me. It rings in my ears until I can’t hear anything but their laughing. I don’t like it. It makes me want to cry.

So I cry. I cry loud. I cry for help. They laugh louder and louder. Pain.

The laughing stops. I open my eyes. I don’t remember closing them. Light. Again. Different sort of light. Not white. Gold light. Gold everywhere. Gold. A gold desk. With a gold figure behind it. It looks down at me. I’m lying in front of the desk. Pain. So much pain.

“No,” the figure says. Its voice is deep. Deep and loud. It hurts my ears. Pain. “Nothing for you.” I sob. I don’t know why. I sob for a long time. The figure stares down at me. Emotionless. Not really here. Just pretend.

The figure watches me sob for a long time. Then it stands up. “I said,” it yells. “Nothing for you!” I stop sobbing. I’m scared. So scared. I want my mum. Mummy, please. The figure crouches down beside me. So high above, still. So far.

“I hate you,” it whispers. I can feel it. It’s not lying. Hatred. Seething hatred. “You weren’t meant to happen. You were a mistake. An error. A problem to be fixed. Only we couldn't fix you. You ruined everything.” I don’t like it. I want my mummy. Mummy isn’t here. I need my mum.

“Get out of my sight,” it mutters. And I do. I scrabble away. On my hands and knees. Like a slave. Servant. I obey.

The ground disappears. Falling. Air rushing past. I scream, but the sound is lost. Silence. Silence and all roaring at the same time. Then nothing. No feeling. No sight.

It’s dark.


So very dark.