Tuesday, September 20, 2011

I don't remember going to bed.

What I do remember is the sensation of something heavy on my back, raspy breath and the feeling of something sharp digging into my shoulders.  Like needles, or knives.  I was completely frozen.  Not a twitch of the ear, not a raise of the eyebrow, not even a wiggle of the fingers.  I was stuck.  And the voice, my god, the voice.  It whispered in my ear, the feeling something between the sweet nothings of a lover, and the empty platitudes of someone about to slaughter an animal.  I don't remember words, only impressions.  No idea what was said other than dread pitting my stomach and fear sweating out cold and slow over my skin.  Were my eyes open?  Or was it just so dark I was incapable of making out anything?  A faraway part of me vaguely wondered if I'd kicked off my covers.  But that part was like an ant scurrying around the feet of whatever terror gripped the rest of me.

I woke up bleeding from my shoulders, as if some wild animal had dug in and refused to let me go.  I seem to be going through bedtime shirts like kleenex.  Or bandages. 

The last time I had a nightmare that vivid, I was six.  That's well over two decades ago, and that's as close as you'll get to me giving out my age here.  It was almost identical, actually, that was what made me remember it.  I was in my room, supposedly safe in bed.  I thought I'd woken up in the middle of the night to something crouching on my back, whispering horrible things I couldn't remember in my ear.  Again, nothing distinct, just a sense that whatever owned the voice would be doing awful things, terrible things, to me and everyone I knew.  I remember crying to my mother in the morning that something had been in my room that night.  She made a show of her and my dad going through my room, of course.  To prove that no one had come in my second-story window, or was hiding under my bed, or in my closet.  My brother was four, he had no clue what was upsetting me so much.  I don't think he let go of my hand while my parents searched every square inch of my room.  One I was satisfied that my parents were right, I don't remember having that nightmare again.  Hell, I'd completely forgotten about it until...well until this bullshit started.

I'm sure the scratches are psychosomatic, there was no skin or blood under my nails.  Moving my arms hurts like a bitch right now, though.  At least I can hide this particular injury under my work clothes.  And of course this freaked me out enough that I checked my door: shut and locked, just like I'd left it after I got home. 

I think that's all for now.  I'm going to go have a moment of zen and a cigarette on my porch.

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