Waking Nightmare
What do you do when the nightmare is your life and is oh so real?
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I've said it before and I'll say it again: writer's throw up their sickness in books (Brian Keenan).
This is very rough, raw and unedited. Let me know what you think.
Story (c) Amethyst Mare (Arian Mabe)
Waking Nightmare Written by Amethyst Mare (Arian Mabe)
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Did you miss me, dearest? I have lived with you for a time now, a voice in your ear, a thorn in your paw. You have been quiet. Do you not have anything left to say? Come now, my darling, my dearest, you must have words left in that head of yours? I live here. I hear every thought you own and steal every one, one by one. They are quite mundane really. Are you sure you are a writer after all? I really do doubt that. You would not disagree. You are not strong enough to rise up against me. I own you.
Miss me, miss me, now you want to kiss me.
Look at you. You are pathetic. Why do you even bother trying? You will never be rid of me, oh no. Go ahead. Cry. See if I care. No one will care. No one is watching you. No one is coming for you. You are all alone in this room, all alone in your head and all alone in your life. This will never change. Give in. You know you want to. You want to forget everything, give in to the blackness. It will be sweet relief, my dear. You want to taste it. Would it not be so very easy to do? Easier than living by any stretch of your imagination. That is not a far stretch, is it? How useless.
Welcome to the nightmare in my head.
You are a drunk, just like your father. Do you remember that? You think he ever amounted to anything? You think he ever wanted to amount to anything? It is the age-old curse, to be 'content' with nothing, 'content' with work, 'content' with hardship and finding not a single soul to keep your spirit alive. You will end up just like him: it is always the case. You shall be no different. He never had dreams. He never wanted more than life. He never achieved, thought of more, challenged anyone. If he did, at one time, dream a spell, he failed dismally. You have already failed. At least he kept going for longer, is still going, if you think about it. You have stopped dead, dead, dead, dead.
Oh, my permission to sin.
Are you awake now? Rolling over in bed, how pathetic. Do you think you can get up? Of course not. You cannot dislodge me. I weigh you down. I have no body. You have a body. It is fat and ugly and has lumps in every incorrect spot. You call those breasts? Go shop in the children's section, that is where they always send you anyway. You may as well pre-empt the inevitable. The immature and childish suits you. Did you ever truly grow up? Did you ever learn how to take care of yourself? Evidently not. Your hair is ridiculous. Why do you even bother brushing it? You think it will make a difference? That is cute, that is absolutely fucking adorable, really. I think I may shed a tear. Oh wait - that's you.
You might have started my reckoning.
I am your fear, darling, the snakes in the pit of your belly. We squirm and writhe and, as soon as you kill one of us, another will take its place. We come in many forms, your worst nightmare. Bees, serpents, slathering hounds - the same disease in different clothing. Others deny our existence. They do not know of us, yet they fear us. This gives us power. You will never win.
Be guilty. You created us. You deserve this.
I'm hearing things and they never turn out real.
We are eternal and you shall never break free.