At first there was nothing but black, then their was light. Like the flip of a switch, and he found himself sitting at his dining room table. The last thing he remembered was having a drink and watching Netflix on his couch. Now, he’s here.
His left hand was completely covered in a dark substance that seemed to be gently swaying, like waves in an ocean. It rested flat against the table, completely immovable. No matter how hard he tried… not even a finger.
His right hand was covered in the same substance and was resting in a writing position, holding a pen and hovering over a sheet of paper. He tries to move that hand, but no luck. Thats when he noticed there was something written on the paper.
“Hello, we need to talk” it reads.
“Da fuck…”
His right hand starts moving, resembling an anamtronic at a fair. He stairs at it, wild eyed and overwhelmed with terror.
“Oh god, oh god, geezus christ….. shitttt!”
He shakes violently desperately trying to leave l the table. He slowly begins to calm as he starts to read words written on the paper.
“I’m sorry. I have control. Must talk with u. When no light, I control”
“Wha… what the hell?”
The hand fires rapidly writing more words.
“We are the Night Terror”
I can barely see over the open car window but I can see enough. My mom and dad talking at the top of the driveway. My two younger brothers sleeping in the back seats next to me. The warm summer breeze gently push the loose tears further down my cheeks. My oldest brother stands in the yard, awkard with youth. Fighting back his own tears.
I hate saying goodbye. My parents movements looks sharper, the polite tones have faded, revealing bitter memories, wounded egos, and improperly healed hearts. She’s going to leave soon. We’re going to leave soon
The lump in my throat starts to form and I can hear myself start to mourn, but I can’t. If I start they’ll start, and I’m a man now… as they say.
Men don’t cry… is what they say.
My dad walks over slowly as if to not scare me away. He leans in the car and says something… I don’t remember… I don’t think it’s important. I’m focused on his face. The tears hiding in his eyes. Just below the surface of his eyelids, his eyes ball red from the pressure of holding them back.
I knod knowingly, and reply “See you next summer.”
They say you never die in your dreams. If you’re falling from some unknown height, quickly descending towards the pavement, you’ll wake up just before your face meets the street.
This is never the case for me. I die in my dream all the time, and not nice polite deaths. Its inventive murder. If you can name it, it’s most likely killed me at some point.
Dogs and other things with teeth, check! Zombies, yup! Knife wielding murdous buttlers, twice actually. I not only do I die, but then I go to an afterlife, and that afterlife is always work. Soul sucking, 9-to-5 cubicle jobs.
I’m either some kind of caseworker for the living, a warehouse technician, or even some kind of security guard for purgatory. It varies but it’s usually, awfully boring.
Even in my dreams, my life is mundane.
