I finally found a way to rid myself of my horrible dream.
It all started when I was sixteen. Somebody at a party gave me some pills to swallow. Trance music was blasting the hotel room, the floors were shaking from the droning bass, and the walls were caving in from the echo of the electric drums.
The dream began.
I was standing in a river of blood. People, naked, writhing in the damp dark murky red, howling with extreme pain. Body parts were hanging from the ceiling attached to wires.
And the children.
The children were facing me. Their black soulless eyes glaring into my very being, licking their thick red lips, baring sharp tiny teeth moving motorized cycles. Buzz saws.
And the things in the walls.
Yellow arms reaching out. Black elongated nails clawing out at anyone getting closer, tearing them apart. Whatever limbs, body parts they can grab, is tossed to the floors ahead.
Floors with mouths.
Mouths with sharp teeth, grinding, chewing flesh.
The children just laugh, giggle. Clap when a meal is done.
I was in a hospital bed. My arms were bound for my own protection. They said I overdosed. That wasn’t the only thing I came away from that party with. My dream. For four years I have lived with it.
I have found a way to rid myself of it. It happened one day at work. I was cleaning the offices and Mrs. Gayle was working late. I forgot to put my gloves on and I accidentally touched her arm. Just brushed it.
She didn’t say a word. She just looked at me. Traumatized. She got up from her chair, mumbled something about murderous children. She walked by me, caught in a daze. I heard the cars honking their horns. I ran to the window and saw Mrs. Gayle laying in the road, surrounded by onlookers and stopped traffic. One car in particular was parked on top of her.
I found a homeless man.
Just lying in an alley. Drunk. Dead drunk. Speaking incoherent words.
I was riding myself of that bad dream.
I touched him. He sprung alive, arms waving, eyes rolling in the back of his head. Blood formed in the corners of his eyes and trickled down his face. He was dead.
I removed my hands.
I was free.
Free of that dream…..no more murderous children, or starving floors.
I could feel that I was free.
Suddenly, walking down a busy sidewalk, almost home, I passed out.
The others woke me minutes later. They said I must have had a conniption fit. That wasn’t all that was happening.
I was dreaming again.
I had inherited that man in the alleys dreams.
Blood red dreams.
By Mark Slade