Essay: My Dream

My Dream – a story by Lloyd Hamilton

I did not sleep well on Sunday night but rather tossed and turned fitfully, my dreams hanging over me, black as storm clouds. It really was my own fault. I should not have invited him to come and go as he desired.

My dream began just like one of the horror games I love playing. It had the eerie shadows of Silent Hill and the sudden shocks of Alone in the Dark (mother thinks it is unhealthy that I enjoy such gory fare ‘ she thinks I should be painting my nails and hanging out with friends ‘ but something about them appeals to my twisted sense of humour and my darker side). It was dark. For some reason I was holed up behind an old counter of a small and dilapidated shop, hiding from something. Or, was I waiting? I could hear the soft, faint sound of someone breathing everywhere I went. I peered into the street through the smeared glass of the front door and slunk out cautiously. The ‘Have a Nice Day!’ sign swung quietly and softly in my wake like the pendulum from a grandfather clock.

I could see a street which was deserted, dimly lit and covered with a thick rising mist. All around was dead empty and dead silent but for the noise in my ears of someone breathing. I seemed to be in a city but for some reason this urban landscape was utterly desolate.

I began to walk. The street was sloped which quickened my pace. I suddenly stopped in by an abandoned, neglected looking tenement. It was all over a shambles and a ruin. An unnaturally dense fog hung and the moon cast an angry crimson glare giving the streets the appearance of a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. I felt the urge to go in, as though something forced me. I cautiously tiptoed up to the door and opened it.

There was nothing of immediate significance inside that I could see, nothing bar a few tattered cardboard boxes and a rickety table. Yet it seemed the noise was much louder. I was certain it came from this room. In a shadowed corner I noticed a sleeping figure who lay on a stained and tattered mattress. She was both familiar to me and yet so strange and distant. She stirred in her sleep, as though she had nightmares that tormented her. Somewhere in my memory her careworn face flashed a spark of recognition but it was fleeting and unclear. Without knowing why, I hated her. Her sleeping figure seemed to be teasing me. Before I could understand why I had bent down and scrambled for the first heavy object I could reach and had brought it swiftly and violently down on her skull. I did this over and over again until my entire arm was drenched with her blood and pulped matter was sticking to me. The noise had stopped.

I dropped the bloody, hair-matted brick when from within me a voice spoke these words, ‘The tendons shall combine the darkness and damnation.’ Quickly, I turned my head sharply to survey the room though I had an awful feeling in my gut there would be no other soul in sight. As my eyes darted wildly from one corner to the next I noticed on the table an object that had not been there before. The moonlight appeared to intentionally glint off it. I walked over and saw a heavily rusted butcher’s cleaver, perfectly positioned in the table’s centre, the blade pointing towards’ her. I knew what had to be done and I will obey.

Without further hesitation I seized the knife and strode back to the pulped mass on the bed. Her hair was a tangled mass that partially veiled her face. The back of her head was a gushing cavity. I felt as if I knew her but I cannot be sure. I ripped the sheet from her corpse and brought the knife down savagely, tearing through and ripping the soft flesh from her bones, until all of the shining pink muscles were showing. I started grasping the slippery tendons, dissecting them until there was a mound of seeping viscera. I now had the raw material I needed to conclude this ceremony. I wound the innards around my neck and up over my face and head like an executioner’s mask.

I put it on and envisioned a looming tower, far away and silhouetted against the night’s sky. Atop it stood an unknown figure who turned towards me. He stood there in his dark ragged cowl. His raging eyes seems to bore into my soul and ate into my heart. He leered at me. He knew he had just drawn me one step closer to entire darkness. I started shouting his name. Just as in most of my dreams, there were many things that seemed like I could not control them. My voice sounded like a whisper and even though I screamed as hard as possibly I could it never travelled.

I violently woke, gasping for air and feeling as though I had not slept at all.

Indeed that night had passed without rest. Instead he really had summoned me; had brought me into his world. He had done numerous times since. And finally, He has shown who he is to me often but is no longer recognisable as what you would call human. He is a shadow with eyes, one with a cowl and a demon’s smile. One whose eyes glow hot with flames and one who speaks to me and caresses my face with sharp, unloving hands.

He’s arisen so far that now there is no way to get him to leave.

He requires a vessel, he’s chosen me and I’m happy to obey.

Source: Essay UK - http://xbmm43.com/essays/english-literature/essay-my-dream/


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