Listen to me.
Listen to me.
Listen.
Listen. Listen.
You’re asleep. This is a dream. And you need to wake up. You’re dreaming, do you hear? Can you hear me? I don’t know, but you need to wake up. Wake. Up. Ok, look at your hands. They don’t look like they should, do they? They look like reaching branches of a long dead tree. They look like popsicle sticks taped together by shaking hands. They look like nothing you or I have ever seen before or will ever see again. That’s because they aren’t real. You. Are. Dreaming
Wake up.
If you don’t, I don’t know what will happen to you. I don’t know what will happen to me. I don’t know what will happen to any of us. But I need you to wake. up. Look in the mirror. No--wait--don’t. Look at the clock. There’s no way that’s the real time. It’s way too early--too late. You don’t believe it--you shouldn’t--you can’t. Try to read something. The words don’t make sense, do they? They just jumble up. They don’t fit like they should. They don’t work together any more, like they have all your life, ever since you were five. That’s because you’re sleeping. Please, please wake up. Just wake--
Nevermind. It’s too late. You’d better stay asleep.
The thing in the doorway is backlit. It, they, are tall and thin With just the wrong number of limbs The wrong number of eyes Lit up, despite the lack of light He advances. It advances. You try to turn on the lights, Fumble for the switch. Where is it? There— Just to the left Flick it on and see. Oh god, it’s so much worse when you can see it.
The grey walls are unadorned. The windows look out on nothing but more of the same, grey concrete, occasionally marked by suspiciously dark stains. The floor is grey too, with a drain in the middle. On the left side of the room is a lamp. It has a post-it by the switch: “Are you sure you want to turn this off?” I’m not sure. This is the only source of light—the only thing pushing back against the inky black I _know _is lurking just outside my vision.
I’ve always been afraid of the dark. People told me it was fine, there was nothing lurking in the shadows, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t afraid of monsters, ghosts or ghouls; I was afraid of the _dark. _I just knew that the dark wanted to hurt me, wanted to swallow me up. But what am I supposed to do? This room is endless and inescapable. And the light hurts my eyes. Maybe just for a moment—just to see what happens.
I flick the switch, and the room disappears beneath impenetrable shadows. I am still alone, still in the room, I just can’t see. Worth a try. I flick the light switch up. Click. Nothing happens. I try again, up and down and up and down updownupdownupdownclickclickclickclickclickclick. Nothing—but a noise? I pause. A noise; like footsteps on mulch, not quite a crunch but more of a shifting. They get louder—like they’re getting closer. I try again, flick the light switch frantically, but nothing happens. I guess they were wrong in the end—there is definitely something in the dark.
The wings were broken—in the fight, probably, but maybe after. She started it. That’s what they all say, put down her whiskey and punched him in the face. Then she made some rather impolite remarks about his mother, wife, and bloodline. Apparently, she forgot that any agility she may have relied on was all but nullified by the poison coursing through her veins: a mix of alcohol, spite, and bravado(though the bravado may have come with the alcohol). Without agility, she was tiny and weak. It didn’t take much to kill her. Even a gnome just had to stomp hard enough, grind her under the heel of his boot. Her lungs were crushed, as were most of her bones. All in all, the interaction lasted maybe ten seconds. Now she’s dead and he’s facing a life in prison. Bystanders claim he smiled after the fact—sat back down and finished his cola. They say he looked back over after a minute, saw she wasn’t breathing, and screamed. He was still screaming when we got there, his voice long since gone, his horror remaining.
