Richie.S

I fell asleep, worried, as I usually do. I had tried to keep awake, but after so many days my body and mind gave me no choice.


I was back in the place, the darkness, the Neverland I wanted no part of.


The dreams had started only a few weeks ago with no indicators that they would. I was shocked when I arrived there and have fought every day since not to go back, but it seems I have no choice.


While I’m awake I make notes, such as these, to confirm my life is real; but I’m not sure I can believe them — how can I know I’m not just writing these in my dreams as well?


Where I’m dragged in my unconsciousness is twilight; an overcast gun metal grey sky with ground that seems like it is the remnants of a lava flow, all covered in a grey-green slime.


I do slip as I walk through this grey-green desolation, but that’s only the beginning.


I would like to hide behind a rock or a wall, but none exist; it is just a slimly grey-green nothingness of a hillside which extends into the horizon. Backwards is down, forwards is up; side to side doesn’t exist, it’s all covered by the flat grey bottomed clouds.


Then they come, over the horizon; people-beasts on all fours, shaggy haired: red eyes starring at me.
They come silently at me, clumping over the terrain, from the distance; and I know they will reach me, ready to take me apart. The bloodlust in their eyes tells me so.


Running is impossible — the ground is slimy; if I run I slip and fall and I become a willing prey.


All I do now is stand, listening to their clickerty click as they cover the land to where I stand. There’s nothing I can do.


Sometimes before they strike, tearing at my torso, I awake and it’s morning and I am happy about that; but it only means one thing and that is I’ll be back there in a few hours.


Other times they reach me, crowding around, panting, drooling, red eyes piercing me. Then the leader leaps, slashing at me, flicking gobbets of my being from me; thigh from leg, bicep from arm, rib from chest.


Blood spews from me hitting the ground, running down the hill side. They don’t touch my head — they want me to be aware.
And before they’re finished I awake knowing that in a few hours I’ll be back there with them.


I wonder how long this torment can continue; I wonder what I’ve done. But for sure, as long as I seem to be part of this world, I will add to this story.


I look forward to the day I can no longer add to this story.

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criticism is the engine beneath the hood of perfection
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Stuff I've posted in the past is still worthy of being critiqued. Please check it out and have your say. I will return the favour.