Thread: The Dream

Disclaimer:

This story contains graphic descriptions of violence.

I find myself in a familiar place. I stare down the passageway, wondering if anything would be different this time. My eyes scrutinize my surroundings for a long few seconds before I arrive at my conclusion. Nope. It's the same old, gray, stone stairwell leading into darkness. From where I stand, I can see about a hundred steps, but I know there's more—far more—out of sight. Behind me is a large, ornate, stone door bearing the image of a menacing gargoyle. I don't even have to look behind me; I know the door is there, and I know it's locked. I've been here many times. I always end up in this place at least every other night or sometimes every night if I've been under stress or worry.

I feel trepidation exciting the contents of my stomach as I take my first step down the steep, straight stairs. My bare feet get colder with every slab of stone they contact. My pace quickens. Though I know what's going to happen, I still feel the need to break the cycle. I HAVE to know what's beyond these stairs. It's calling to me; everything I ever wanted is at the bottom.

I rush down covering three to four steps with each bound. I've easily gone down 300 by now: farther than I've ever made it before. My heart is pounding. I can see a dim, red light a couple hundred steps further down. It looks like firelight filtered through stained glass. This must be it, what I've tried for and failed multitudes of times. The idea of reaching the end of this passage consumes me, and I desperately rush toward the light.

Then, it happens.

A figure rushes out from the shadows, seemingly materializing from the walls of the passage. It grabs me by the throat and slams me down to the ground. My vision immediately goes black at the impact; I can't identify my assailant. I grab at the attacker's forearms and start clawing. I'm too small and frail to do anything else. The figure ignores my attempted defense and presses down on my esophagus with its large hands. I can feel my throat start to cave in as my lungs beg for air. I feel a sharp pain as cold metal slides into my stomach—a knife. Hatred and agony well up in me as this unknown being twists the blade, mutilating my insides. I can feel my own blood soaking my clothes, but I can't scream.

As my consciousness fades out, I hear a sharp whisper: “Fight back next time, or you will never get what you want...”



I open my eyes and sit bolt upright. I'm breathing heavily, and my nightclothes are damp with cold sweat. I look around my room as I try to calm myself. Everything is normal. My walls are still dark purplish gray, my messy floor is still riddled with items that didn't find their way to my dresser or nightstand. The descending passageway, the gargoyle door, and the malicious figure were all ethereal. It was just a dream as always.

I look at the clock. 5:47 AM. Three minutes later than last time. I usually always awaken from this nightmare at 5:44. But this instance wasn't usual. Never before in this cycle of dreams has that mysterious voice whispered to me as I regained consciousness. Was it the voice of the attacker or that of a third party?

Either way, I shrug off thoughts of that recurring nightmare and get ready to go to school. After getting dressed, brushing my teeth, getting my books together, and all that jazz, I walk out the door into the garage. I open the door of the car, toss my things on the passenger seat, sit down, and shove the key into the ignition of my parents' 2010 Ford Fusion. The engine purrs and comes to life. I had just gotten my license last summer, and I was psyched to be driving myself to school in this pretty red vehicle. I've always loved the color red.

I pull out of the driveway and onto the road. It's September 25th of my senior year, three days before my seventeenth birthday. I'm excited to graduate and get on with my life (and to get out of this town). I hope this year goes quickly.

I roll into the school lot and take a generic parking space somewhere in the middle of the stretch of pavement. I gather my things and switch my mind into auto-pilot mode.

The day lapses into familiar monotony as I trudge to each class. Fifth period rolls around. Time for physics. I go to my locker, grab my textbook, and start walking towards room W109.

I notice Aaron in the hall. I've known him for a couple years. He's a junior, and he's kind of a dark individual. He's a friend, but I've always felt a bit uneasy about him. He has a tall stature, pale skin, and longish, black hair. He makes eye contact with me without a smile. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I can feel his dark brown irides boring into me. His eyes are the exact same color as mine. He's still staring at me when I hear it. A convergence of voices, all in a whisper. “Fight back!” they hiss. I stop dead in my tracks. He breaks his gaze and keeps walking. Did his lips move? Were those his words?

A disgruntled student behind me angrily mutters about my stationary condition. My mind snaps back to reality, and I continue walking to class.

I obsess over that hallway encounter for the entirety of the day. I don't say much to anyone; I'm too enveloped in my thoughts. I don't pay attention in any of my classes, but that's nothing new. Senioritis. School is out for the day, and I walk to my car. The drive home is uneventful. I feel like I could make this path with my eyes closed at this point.

I'm home. I get out of the car and go into the garage. I give a halfhearted greeting to my parents and head straight to my room. I turn on my computer and wait on it to start up. My phone buzzes. I look at the screen to see a text from Aaron. “Long time no see...” it reads. Chills run down my spine; I don't respond to the message. I suddenly find myself wishing it was nighttime so I can go back to that descending catacomb and see if anything has changed.

I log onto Facebook and queue up some recent favorite songs on a random music streaming site. The Internet is really handy for passing the time. I notice my thoughts continually flickering back to Aaron. What's his problem, anyway? Why didn't he explain himself rather than sending those four little words in a seemingly meaningless message? Why do I feel animosity for him boiling inside me?

All of these questions go unanswered as I continue to kill time with social networking. I don't know why I get on this site; it's not like I have a ton of friends to talk to. I scan over all the little updates about the lives of my acquaintances, seeming to find something to be annoyed with in every post. My mood has slowly become quite bitter by the time midnight comes around. I turn off the computer and go get ready for bed.

I had been reluctant to sleep since the dreams started, but I wanted to go to bed early tonight. My recent mild sleep deprivation makes it easy to drift off. My thoughts slow down, my breathing becomes heavy, and my consciousness fades to black.



I'm in the stairwell again. My heart is already pounding. I look behind me and see the gargoyle door; I see its red eyes staring at me. I look back towards the bottom of the passage. I can see the light from the top of the steps this time. Is the path shorter? I start running down.

I can see the red light glowing through an open archway at the bottom where the descent ends and where the stone probably opens into a level chamber.

I'm almost there when he jumps out of the shadows this time. But I'm ready. He grabs my throat with lightning speed, and I feel him start to slam me down. I keep my eyes wide open and extend my arms behind me to break my fall. I feel the bones of my forearms splinter as my slender form is forced against the stone. I try to ignore the screeching pain. He grins at me wolfishly. “That's it.” he mocks, “Fight back. You'll never be good enough.” His dark brown eyes seethe with fury. Brown. That's the last detail I can hold onto as the pain overwhelms me. He finishes me off like he has every other time: crushed throat, disemboweled intestines.



My eyes open with a start. The worst part about these dreams is that they're sensory. I can feel every bone as it breaks, every organ as it punctures. And I hate him for it.

I look at the clock. 5:48. One minute later than yesterday. I'm not breathing as hard as I was yesterday, though, because I'm one step closer to reaching my goal. I know what I have to do. He's the one keeping me from reaching that precious light. There's no way I can beat him in the dream though. He's too strong, too fast. As he said, I'll never be good enough. But what if I can eliminate him in reality? Surely he can't invade my slumber if he's dead.

I go through my morning routine while trying to formulate a way to force Aaron's heart to stop beating. It needs to be quiet. It needs to be secluded. Most importantly of all, it needs to be painful. Before I leave, I search through my room for items that can do the job. I know what I'm looking for. I find the dagger lying on my shelf. The blade is only about two-thirds as long as my hand, but it's deadly sharp and has a vicious curve to it. I slip it into my purse. The pepper spray is on my dresser. It's not incredibly potent, but it should be strong enough to distract him just long enough for the knife to do its job. I slip the small canister into my left pocket.

I grab a change of clothes, and throw them in the back seat of my car.

At school, I search for Aaron in between every period. I need to lure him away to a private area of some sort. But how?

I see him in the hall before third period. My blood boils. The voices are screaming in my mind. They're all his voice, replicated a thousand times. “Fight back. Now! Strike!” They grow stronger as I cut through the sea of people and walk towards him. I can't do it now, I can't make a scene. He eyes me with a cautious look on his face as I reach out to him and hand him a small piece of paper. I walk away. The note read “Hey, you're right; long time no see. I miss how we used to talk all the time. Meet me at my car after school around 3? We should go grab some food and catch up.”

The stomach acid churns as the reality of what I've just started sets in. He'll be dead within the day, and I'll finally know what's at the bottom of that damned staircase.

The rest of the day flies by. I spend every class period going over in my mind how I'm going to do it. I'm going to ask him where he wants to go eat. He'll give me an indifferent response and will probably ask the real reason that I wanted to hang out. And then I'll tell him. Or rather, I'll show him. A smile breaks across my face.

School is out. It's 2:47; thirteen minutes to showtime. I reach inside my purse to ensure that the knife is still there. I adjust its position slightly so that I'll be able to pull it quickly. I walk out to my car, put my books in the back seat, and wait. It's a chilly day out, much colder than it's been the rest of the week. It seems fitting.

My heart speeds up when I see him walking toward the car. He took the bait. The same sort of smile from earlier is on my face again. I quickly try to mold it into something that looks friendly. “Hey Aaron!” I shout. I wish he would get over here faster. His eyes lock onto mine, and I almost start trembling from the anticipation and sheer rage. The voices chime in again. “Fight. Back.” His expression doesn't change, but I'm sure he's the one taunting me. He has to be. No turning back now, anyway.

He's a lot less intimidating in person than in the dream. While still bigger than me, he's a lot smaller, a lot less threatening. My confidence bolsters. I can take him, I'm sure of it.

“Hey.” He says quietly as he nears my car. “What's up?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. So where to?”

“Wherever you want I guess. It's your car.”

We get in and I start the ignition. He buckles his seat belt; I leave mine unfastened. His attitude always did rub me the wrong way. The voices are a constant chorus of whispers now. I wonder if he knows what I'm about to do. I turn on some music, and turn it up loud.

I pull out of the school parking lot, and onto a secluded country road. “We're taking the scenic route.” I almost snap. After driving out two miles or so, I glance around to make sure there's no one nearby. Not a soul. Good. There's a deep little river about two hundred feet away, parallel to the road. Wonderful. As the anticipation makes my hands start to shake, the whispers grow more intense. I use my right hand to steer while my left hand finds the pepper spray.

I swerve off the side of the road toward the little river and start applying the brakes.

“What are you doing?” he asks in an eerily calm, irritated voice. He looks out the window, then looks behind him. The perfect opportunity. I take out the canister of pepper spray and aim the stream at his eyes. He shrieks and reaches for his face, letting loose a string of obscenities.

The voices hiss with pleasure.

In one swift motion, I grab my dagger, lunge over the center console of the car, and plunge my blade into his throat, avoiding the jugular. I don't want to make too much of a mess. The sharp steel pierces his esophagus, and his screams become horrid gurgles. Blood starts flowing from his mouth. He's still squinting from the chemicals in his eyes, but now he's trying to grip his throat. I shove the knife deeper, twist it, and yank it out. I unbuckle his seat belt, open the door on his side, and shove him out of the vehicle. Lucky for me, there's not much blood in my car; most of the crimson liquid is on my shirt and pants. Of course, he's covered in it as well.

The voices say, “Do it now.”

He's lying on his back in the grass. He's managed to open his eyes. He's looking directly into mine, with the same look of horror I displayed every time he took my life in those dreams. Vengeance is mine.

There's a sizable, bleeding hole in his throat at this point. It's probably enough to kill him, but I want to be sure. I stand over him and plunge my knife into his chest. I'm not strong enough to get past the ribcage. I plunge it again, a little lower this time, into his stomach. Just like me in my dream, he can't scream. He can feel himself dying, but there's not a thing he can do about it. I stand up and stare into his eyes. His warm blood is dripping from my hands.
There is one voice now, and it speaks at the exact same volume and with the exact same intonation as the one from the night before last: “You fought back.”

...What have I done?

The next several hours are a blur. I manage to dump his lifeless body into the river. I change my clothes, I go home. My parents aren't home. I don't remember why. I get the bleach and a scrub brush and clean out my car. I take a shower. I do my homework for the first time this week.

It's only ten PM, but I'm exhausted. Cleaning up the mess took almost five hours. I go through my nighttime routine and climb into bed. Tomorrow is my birthday.



Not at all to my surprise, I'm in the passage again. My heart is pounding faster than ever. I walk down the staircase this time rather than run. There's nothing to run from this time, I'm sure.

I get all the way to the bottom. This time instead of an open archway, there's a door. It's thick and wooden. My hand trembling, I reach out and grab the doorknob. It turns easily and I open the door.

A wave of anticipation like no other hits. I'm sure that in this room is everything I ever wanted. Crimson light coming from the stained-glass roof bathes my surroundings. I look around the gargantuan room.

I see piles of dead bodies. Everywhere. No! This can't be. This...this isn't what I thought it would be...
My hands start shaking violently. My spine follows suit. A sob escapes my lips. I frantically run over to one of the piles...it can't possibly be...

But it is. Every single one of these corpses is me. There's a corpse for every time I've been in this horrible nightmare. I examine them closer. They're all the same. They all have crushed necks and sickening stomach wounds, and all of them have their eyes wide open. I'm staring into the hollow soul of my own dead body.

Tears start running down my face. I look toward the center of the room. There's a solitary body in the middle of the floor. My heart skips a beat. I stumble over to the corpse. It's Aaron's. Remorse wells up.

I hear the sound of glass breaking. Crimson shards rain down around me. I look up to see the same shadowy figure from all the other dreams descending on me. There's a hole in his throat. Rather than words, he lets out a guttural shriek as his clawed hand plunges into my chest. His hand grips my heart. I feel it squeeze.



I wake up in my bed, crying. No. This isn't what I wanted. This isn't what was supposed to happen. It's not my fault. It can't be.

The dagger that I killed Aaron with lies on my nightstand. I take in my trembling hands, and slowly raise it to my throat. In one fluid motion, I slice my jugular. I feel the blood flowing out rapidly, but I'm not afraid.

After all, I've died a thousand times before. I just won't wake up this time.


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This is the second short story I've ever finished and the first one I've ever put in public. Please be nice.

Hi Sparkypants

Congratulations on your first public posting of your own fiction, it's always a big step, and can be quite a daunting prospect.

There are two levels on which I'm not sure your story works, though that isn't to say it isn't well written in places. Firstly, it is difficult to believe anybody would commit a murder due to the events of a dream or dreams - unless the murderer is messed up in the head. You touch on this with the voices he hears, though I think the reader needs more convincing about his state of mind. Secondly, the fact it is written in first person present tense, and yet the narrator is dead at the end; it doesn't convince me. It could be fixed by writing in the past tense, in which case the narrator becomes a ghost recounting the tale, though I'm still not sure that would work for me - but that's a reader preference.

esophagus

Should be oesophagus, unless you have a different spelling in the US.

nighttime

night-time

Either way, I shrug off thoughts of that recurring nightmare and get ready to go to school. After getting dressed, brushing my teeth, getting my books together, and all that jazz, I walk out the door into the garage. I open the door of the car, toss my things on the passenger seat, sit down, and shove the key into the ignition of my parents' 2010 Ford Fusion. The engine purrs and comes to life. I had just gotten my license last summer, and I was psyched to be driving myself to school in this pretty red vehicle. I've always loved the color red.

The narrator tells us he gets ready for school, then list the things it involves. The reader will know what is involved here, and it doesn't add anything to the story. The stuff about the car is irrelevant, too. Just get the narrator to the school scene with a minimum of fuss and words, as the journey is irrelevant, and the meeting with Aaron is central.

Same with the bit about logging on to facebook. It tells us nothing, except maybe that he's bored. In a short story there is no need for transitional phases. Just get to the point. If you're skipping to another scene at a later time you can identify this simply by leaving an extra couple of lines between paragraphs. (Aha, I see you did that later)

Good luck with editing. Time consuming, yes, but essential to get the polished finished product.

Scott.

Actually, I rather disagree with Bilston Blue. I think it's a very good story. It does need a bit of editing, but esophagus is the correct spelling for Americans. I think the details about Facebook and red cars help to remind the reader that the narrator is indeed a high school kid, with all the embarrassing vulnerabilities and insecurities of a high school kid.
Some of the words could be replaced with ones that fit better. I can help edit it if you want, Sparkypants.

Thank you both for your feedback; it's greatly appreciated and very encouraging that you thought the story was written well. Your editing suggestions are welcome and appreciated as well.

Blue: I loosely based the narrator off of myself. The story was basically meant to show a rapid, yet somewhat subtle, descent into insanity through slight behavioral changes that would be expected of a person with my personality. The description of preparing for school was, as Trides suggested, meant to remind the reader that the narrator is a "normal" high school kid. The section about Facebook is meant to subtly hint at the narrator's growing irritability and developing instability. Maybe it wasn't implied strongly enough? Also, the narrator isn't dead in the end, she's in the process of dying. The story is told more from a perspective of what's going on in her mind rather than as if she were recounting the tale to another person.

Trides: Thank you for the compliment. I'm totally open to editing suggestions; this goes for Blue too.

Hi again Sparkypants

The description of preparing for school was, as Trides suggested, meant to remind the reader that the narrator is a "normal" high school kid.

Point taken about the getting ready for school bit, but it doesn't alter the fact it is still a list of things being done. If you're trying to get across the slip from normality into insanity, then I think you need to get the reader into your character's head more, and maybe reflect the normality to, with what you have him doing at this point. So instead of listing things that anyone might do, show the normality of the situation. Something that pops into my mind that I used to do everyday whilst getting ready for school, and that's arguing with my sister over the breakfast table, things like that reflect the everyday, the boring, the mundane; but that's what normality is (for many people), and I think it works when done well.

Anyway, good luck, and I look forward to reading any updated version.

Oh okay. That does sound better. Probably silly question: when I'm editing my story, am I supposed to edit the original post, or am I supposed to edit it then re-post the whole thing as a reply comment in this thread?

Originally Posted by Sparkypants

Oh okay. That does sound better. Probably silly question: when I'm editing my story, am I supposed to edit the original post, or am I supposed to edit it then re-post the whole thing as a reply comment in this thread?

I don't suppose it really matters. I tend to have a copy on cd or memory stick, and so I'll do my editing there, then delete the opening post and paste in the revised copy, so anybody new to the thread doesn't have to read the original and then follow up with a new version. If you simply update the opening post, add a new post to the thread informing readers of the original about the updated version. I hope you followed that, because I'm not even sure I did.

Personally, I'd copy, paste, edit, and post.

There are lots of things I like about this story, including the writing itself for the most part...
I just don't feel convinced about the brutality of the character... not sure why... maybe I think this kind of psychosis is a little more complicated... in anycase if you're trying to get into the mind of a person who might do this I think it's a very, very difficult task, and not very pleasant... so on character psychology I'd say it's a good start...
cheers

Okay, so I'll probably just post the edited version as a reply to this thread. I haven't edited it yet; it's finals week at school so I've had other stuff to attend to. Haha. I'll get around to it soon, hopefully.
Roughin: Thanks! I'm glad you enjoy my style. And yeah, portraying the exact feelings of my narrator is difficult and I don't feel that I have it quite right.

I really like this; it's a bit grim, and I love stories that are a bit grim.

I only picked up one thing on the way through; The narrator doesn't want to make too much mess in his car, but then slices Aaron's jugular; I'm no expert on biology, perhaps someone here can set me right, but wouldn't that create quite a spray of blood? Or would that, in fact, be a good way to create little mess? :S Now I doubt my own typing

I don't know how to do the quote thingy, so I'll just copy-paste the part of the story you're probably referencing:
"In one swift motion, I grab my dagger, lunge over the center console of the car, and plunge my blade into his throat, avoiding the jugular. I don't want to make too much of a mess. The sharp steel pierces his esophagus, and his screams become horrid gurgles. Blood starts flowing from his mouth. He's still squinting from the chemicals in his eyes, but now he's trying to grip his throat. I shove the knife deeper, twist it, and yank it out. I unbuckle his seat belt, open the door on his side, and shove him out of the vehicle. Lucky for me, there's not much blood in my car; most of the crimson liquid is on my shirt and pants. Of course, he's covered in it as well."
Notice that the narrator avoids the jugular until she kicks Aaron out of the car and onto the ground. Then she really goes to town on the messy stuff, but I still never said she sliced his jugular.

My mistake; must have misread it ^^

It happens. Thanks for reading it and giving your input though!