Nothing but thick, black air surrounds me. I see nothing. I feel nothing. All I hear is the uneasy, rapid pulse of my heart. This feels like hell. It can’t be…I can’t be…at least, not at this age. Right? Wait… I can see! I’m at my childhood ranch again! Oh, how I’ve missed this sanctuary! If only this was at a better time I could stop and reminisce. I don’t know how much longer I can run like this. I can barely breathe. But dieing from exhaustion is better than what he had in mind. There’s a house in the distance! I just have to push myself a little more. Hopefully I won’t be seen taking refuge and I can rest my weary legs. All I can hear now is the sound of my lungs and heart preparing to fail as I climb the steps into these golden gates- or so they seem. Once inside I can pause, but only for a short while. This room is madness. The walls are a faded white. It must have been beautiful back in the day. Looks like there hasn’t been a soul here for years. Yellow wallpaper, now dull and with a hint of brown, peels off of the walls. Musty smell this place has. Blood stains the once heavenly white of this asylum – his blood. The furniture is ripped, shredded even, and all they hold now are the past to this place. This can’t be sane.
A sudden feeling of dread and fear overwhelms me. I clutch a cross dangling from around my neck and head for a set of stairs. The further back into the house I get, the more dark, dreary, depressing, bland, and grey the house became. It felt like running through the first circle of hell, Dante’s description being exact. A chill takes over my body and I pause… the door has opened. My eyes grow and water- and I am silent. His footsteps are slow and heavy, and with each one, they slow down time and take away from reality. I still have not seen him, and hopefully, I won’t ever have to. After what seems like hours of waiting, he heads for the front door, not finding any trace of my presence there. Finally, he’s almost gone, and I can make it out alive! I think I can get away if I ju—jus—oh no, I have to snee—snee— … phew. I caught it. He didn’t hear me…or so I thought. Just as I caught the sneeze, I tripped and the floorboard creaked. NO! NO! He heard it! No use in being quiet now. I have to get up, but I can’t. Why can’t I move!? How can this be happening!? I was in the clear; I was going to be able to live, to go home, to grow up… Oh my god, he’s hideous. Wait, I can move? I can move! Dear God, please, feet don’t fail me now!
Atop the stairs there is a door with a light coming from under it. A bright spot surrounded by darkness and dementia. I run inside and huddle in the farthest corner. Cross clutched in my hand, I begin to pray for forgiveness for all of my sins. I have lived a life with only one regret: coming here, wherever here is. I begin, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy na—“ and I notice something is going terribly wrong. I’ve held the holy sacrament too tightly, and it has pierced my skin, so now that my blood stains a cross. Nothing can save me now. I’m doomed to an eternity of pain and suffering. Why oh why did I let him catch me!? As I beg for forgiveness one last time, I take a moment to take not of anything remotely beautiful so that my untimely demise is not so bad after all with the thought of a smile in my mind. It is so haunting. No furniture. No decorations. Only pure, angelic white paint on the walls. No windows. And cold, grey concrete as flooring with my last mark, my blood stained cross, as the only color. Have I already gone to purgatory? I couldn’t have. No, I haven’t, because now he’s in the doorway. He’s horrid. I feel as if I am looking the devil himself in the face, as he is about to take my soul. His clothes, the purest of white and nothing less nothing more, stained with the remorse of previous victims. His skin, bloated and grey. It looks as if he is in the beginning stages of decaying. Open sores cover his body. His nails, long, yellow, and dagger-like are frightening enough to stop a horse dead in its tracks. That hair, oh Lord that hair. Jet-black and past his shoulders, looks as if it is composed of millions upon millions of the deadliest black widows. With every breath, he draws closer. Now he is close enough so that I can see his eyes. Pools of the blackest of black spheres that seem to be portals to Hades all their own. God why does it have to end this way?
I pick up the cross for one last time. Held firmly in my hand, blood oozing out from underneath, I say one last prayer, and bless my soul as I embrace the dance of the dead. He leans forward, grimacing at the sight of my sheer terror, showing off the razorblade teeth dripping in blood. I prepare for a slow and painful death as he takes the final stages in his awful deed.
And then I’m home. How did I get home? Where’s that room, that house, that demonic figure of a man? Was it all a dream? It had to have been, nothing like that can ever exist nor happen. What am I thinking? Just a nightmare. That’s all it was. I’ll never have to see him or that room again. Wait…what’s going on? Why can’t I see anymore?
Based on a re-occuring nightmare I had as a child, this is the start of my battle with psychosis. The man in the story is the man I had hallucinations of and heard “his” voice. Ever since I was 6 years old, I’ve been struggling to keep touch with realtity, and this is the nightmare that started it all. The first in a series I plan on writing and turning into screenplays. None of this has been exaggerated or made up. These nightmares that started my war with reality are exactaly how they happened.