He was being chased û by what he didn't know û he could feel them, reaching out, could always feel cold breaths down his neck, could hear groans coming from behind him, hear screams and cries in the distance.
The sky was turning red, and the buildings were all burning to the ground, and the thick, black smoke was rising, blotting out the sun, casting everything into a near-darkness.
The groans stopped. It was replaced with a loud, constant screeching. He wouldn't look. If he did, he'd slow down, or trip, or something, and then he'd be surrounded and û
He looked over his shoulder.
The screeching came from the pack of monsters chasing him. They were short û only up to his waist û but their arms dragged across the ground, each finger on their hands a sharp, rust colored blade. They looked like they were made with rotting flesh, long, decaying slices of shin wrapped around their bodies, over and over, like gauze.
They bled everywhere û and it came in waves. Each step, each grasp, each screech that came from their faceless head would call forth torrents of blood. Their limbs would convulse, shake wildly, as their blood painted their pink-grey skins.
He ran faster. He had to get away. A person screamed for help, was surrounded û he ran past, never slowed down.
If he was grabbed, it was over. He would be thrown to the ground, his skin ripped off, his muscles and organs eaten, bit by bit, since those monsters were going to savor the kill. He might not die instantly, but he wanted to, because if he was alive, he'd be able to feel their claws dig into his chest, feel their hands grasp at and rip apart his intestines, hear them screech in ecstasy as his blood ran down their throats, hear himself scream and cry for someone, anyone, to just kill him now and û
- and they were on him, going for a quick kill, felt their claws stab through him, pulsing pain, agonizing pain, pain pain pain pain -
---------------------
It was still dark.
Despite that, he got off his bed, rubbed the sleep away from his eyes, glanced at his clock.
3:35 AM. Only an hour of sleep this time. Wonderful.
And he could never go back to sleep after one of those dreams. They would only pick up where they left off, and he'd be running and climbing, screaming and crying until he woke up again.
He might get more sleep, but he would only up more drained.
With a sigh, he flipped the light switch, expelling the night from his room. Might as well get something done.
---------------------
From 6 AM to 7 PM, he was fine, safe. A part of him laughed at his childishness, but all he could do was breath a sigh of relief once the alarm started ringing.
At night, those dreams felt real, even after he woke. But by day, those terrors were out of sight, out of mind.
---------------------
He was in a mall. Everything was tinted with frosty blue.
He tried to look outside, but the windows were gone. The door, too.
There wasn't any noise in the mall. That was a good sign, right? No people, true, but nothing screeching in the night.
He took out a flashlight, turned it o-
Wait, what was that sound?
Slowly, carefully, he peeked around the corner. A light beam was still on, keeping the area it focused on û a marble statue û brightly lit.
The things were all over it. They were clawing into it, ripping out small chunks of marble with each swing. The head had been broken off, fallen to the side. Blood was leaking out of the head's neck.
The statue's face looked like his.
He saw one of them walk over to the head, gently caressed it with the back of its palm.
He felt something impossibly cold pressed onto his cheek.
And suddenly, his body was covered in cuts and bruises and blood. He was missing a part of his side, just like the statue. But he wasn't dead, right? Since the statue was beheaded, but he could still feel his ne û
The back of his neck was starting to bleed.
He ran. Just like in every other time, he ran. Run, run, run, get out, get out, get out before they ripped your head off, or choked you to death, ate you alive.
A few saw him, tackled him. He was getting swarmed, the things preferring warm flesh to cold stone. They pinned him down, arms legs head, and one was straddling him now, claw raised up high, ready to be brought down, to tear his body apart, rip his stomach open, drink the acid and û
- And the thing swung down, ripped into his stomach, letting the acid spill; it burned, he couldnÆt scream, they ripped out his vocal chords, he could see the statue crumbling away û
---------------------
He woke up screaming.
It took him a while to stop.
---------------------
Like clockwork, he woke up in the middle of the night, always on the verge of puking. Always chased, always mutilated, always dead.
Sometimes, heÆd get up, try to occupy his mind with thoughts, get away from the dream. But sometimes, all he could do was hug himself, and wait for his daily reprieve.
The sky was turning red, and the buildings were all burning to the ground, and the thick, black smoke was rising, blotting out the sun, casting everything into a near-darkness.
The groans stopped. It was replaced with a loud, constant screeching. He wouldn't look. If he did, he'd slow down, or trip, or something, and then he'd be surrounded and û
He looked over his shoulder.
The screeching came from the pack of monsters chasing him. They were short û only up to his waist û but their arms dragged across the ground, each finger on their hands a sharp, rust colored blade. They looked like they were made with rotting flesh, long, decaying slices of shin wrapped around their bodies, over and over, like gauze.
They bled everywhere û and it came in waves. Each step, each grasp, each screech that came from their faceless head would call forth torrents of blood. Their limbs would convulse, shake wildly, as their blood painted their pink-grey skins.
He ran faster. He had to get away. A person screamed for help, was surrounded û he ran past, never slowed down.
If he was grabbed, it was over. He would be thrown to the ground, his skin ripped off, his muscles and organs eaten, bit by bit, since those monsters were going to savor the kill. He might not die instantly, but he wanted to, because if he was alive, he'd be able to feel their claws dig into his chest, feel their hands grasp at and rip apart his intestines, hear them screech in ecstasy as his blood ran down their throats, hear himself scream and cry for someone, anyone, to just kill him now and û
- and they were on him, going for a quick kill, felt their claws stab through him, pulsing pain, agonizing pain, pain pain pain pain -
---------------------
It was still dark.
Despite that, he got off his bed, rubbed the sleep away from his eyes, glanced at his clock.
3:35 AM. Only an hour of sleep this time. Wonderful.
And he could never go back to sleep after one of those dreams. They would only pick up where they left off, and he'd be running and climbing, screaming and crying until he woke up again.
He might get more sleep, but he would only up more drained.
With a sigh, he flipped the light switch, expelling the night from his room. Might as well get something done.
---------------------
From 6 AM to 7 PM, he was fine, safe. A part of him laughed at his childishness, but all he could do was breath a sigh of relief once the alarm started ringing.
At night, those dreams felt real, even after he woke. But by day, those terrors were out of sight, out of mind.
---------------------
He was in a mall. Everything was tinted with frosty blue.
He tried to look outside, but the windows were gone. The door, too.
There wasn't any noise in the mall. That was a good sign, right? No people, true, but nothing screeching in the night.
He took out a flashlight, turned it o-
Wait, what was that sound?
Slowly, carefully, he peeked around the corner. A light beam was still on, keeping the area it focused on û a marble statue û brightly lit.
The things were all over it. They were clawing into it, ripping out small chunks of marble with each swing. The head had been broken off, fallen to the side. Blood was leaking out of the head's neck.
The statue's face looked like his.
He saw one of them walk over to the head, gently caressed it with the back of its palm.
He felt something impossibly cold pressed onto his cheek.
And suddenly, his body was covered in cuts and bruises and blood. He was missing a part of his side, just like the statue. But he wasn't dead, right? Since the statue was beheaded, but he could still feel his ne û
The back of his neck was starting to bleed.
He ran. Just like in every other time, he ran. Run, run, run, get out, get out, get out before they ripped your head off, or choked you to death, ate you alive.
A few saw him, tackled him. He was getting swarmed, the things preferring warm flesh to cold stone. They pinned him down, arms legs head, and one was straddling him now, claw raised up high, ready to be brought down, to tear his body apart, rip his stomach open, drink the acid and û
- And the thing swung down, ripped into his stomach, letting the acid spill; it burned, he couldnÆt scream, they ripped out his vocal chords, he could see the statue crumbling away û
---------------------
He woke up screaming.
It took him a while to stop.
---------------------
Like clockwork, he woke up in the middle of the night, always on the verge of puking. Always chased, always mutilated, always dead.
Sometimes, heÆd get up, try to occupy his mind with thoughts, get away from the dream. But sometimes, all he could do was hug himself, and wait for his daily reprieve.