[oc] short stories

My twist on a childhood story.

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The boy stared down at the two small pills in his hand. They were a shade of robin-egg blue, and about the size of a small pencil eraser. The boy stared, weighing the consequences of taking the pills against washing them down the drain. If the boy took the pills, he would become a zombie. Entirely dead to all external stimuli. He would become slow, sluggish, sleepy. The boy's thought process would slow to the speed of a cloud, drifting lazily across an open summer sky.
The consequences of the boy not taking the two dreadful pills were that The Sickness would come back. Until the next morning, when the boy had to again make the choice of taking the pills or not, the boy's head would race like lightning that arched across the blackened sky in midst of a torrential storm. The boy would hear things that weren't there. The boy would see things that didn't exist. The boy would think things that shouldn't be thought.
Every day the boy had to fight this short internal battle before the symptoms actually began. In a bout of curiosity, the boy decided to throw one of the pills down the gaping hole at the bottom of the scratched, white sink and take the other pill. He figured that two pills were too many, so he might try just one. Just to see what would happen. The boy watched as the unswallowed blue pill circled the drain of the sink, spinning and spiraling in an elliptical way until it was swallowed up by the darkness of the drain.

The boy looked up from the sink and stared at himself staring at himself in the grubby reflection of the cracked and stained mirror. He looked at the eyes that gazed back at him. They were green in shade, flecked with years of hardship. His olive skin marked and marred by the scars from his eighteen years of difficult life. The son of a farmer and a shepherd himself, the boy had never seen easy times. Things only got harder when he began to hear things and see things and think things a few months ago.
“Too late to go back now,” The boy said as he walked away from his reflection in the mirror.
The boy walked from the single bathroom down the hall to the small kitchen where his mother was cooking over a wood burning stove.
“Good morning, son,” the mother said, without turning from the stove.
“Morning, Mama. Is Papa already in the field?”
The mother nodded as she stirred vegetables into a stew that would serve as dinner for the evening. “Are you hungry?” The mother asked.
“No, not really. The pills cause me to lose my appetite,” the boy said, choosing not mentioning the wasted pill. The boy's parents barely managed to make ends meet as it was, and the pills had been nearly unaffordable. The parents had promised to the boy that they were financially stable, but the boy was not stupid. He understood that his parents struggled. Everyone in the small eastern European town struggled.

The boy and his parents had to spend several days traveling to the closest big city in the father's old truck to get the boy to a doctor when they realized that the boy's symptoms were simply going to get worse and worse. The night terrors, the hallucinations, the voices. The boy described these to the doctors in the big white coats. They told him that he most likely had a mind-disease that had a long and complex name. The doctors had called it “Skitzofreenyia” or so the boy remembered it. After staying in a mental hospital for several days while his parents stayed in a nearby motel, the doctors gave the young man a prescription for the pills that he was now taking. They said that two pills a day would make the symptoms more manageable. After a few days of taking the pills, the boy decided that he hated them. He hated the mind-disease more, though. The voices that told him to do unspeakable things. The horrific dreams that haunted him every time he closed his eyes. The pills did help, but they made the boy different.
“Well, I am going to go take the sheep to the field and let them graze until noon time,” the boy said.
“There will be no lunch today, you should eat now,” the mother said, still not turning from the sweltering heat of the stove.
“No, Mama. I am not hungry. I will wait until supper.”
“My dear sweet boy, are you trying to starve yourself?”
“I'm fine, Mama. I will return to help Papa in the fields at noon,” The boy said as he left the kitchen to go put on his shoes and retrieve his crook from the small shed.

The boy passed his father in the corn field as he led the sheep from the pen down the dirt road. The father waved a silent greeting that the boy returned. The boy continued leading his sheep down the narrow dirt road that was nothing more than two parallel ruts.
The boy reached the field that was a fifteen minute walk from his small cottage and let his sheep wander off to graze. The large, circular field was bordered on three sides by a thick forest. The fourth side was a gradual slope that went into the rest of the village down below, with the trail back to the boy's house. A singular tree stood near the middle of the field. It offered ample shade against the baking sun, and the boy often sat under it as he watched the sheep waddling through the grass.
The boy climbed the gentle incline to the tree and sat in the dark shade with his crook across his lap. A sigh escaped the boys lips as his head tilted back against the hard bark of the tree. He realized that he didn't feel sluggish or dulled from the pill. His thoughts weren't erratic and wild either. A smile split the boy's face thinking that he had found a way to balance his medication simply by halving it. The boy relaxed under the tree, finally able to let his mind wander without worrying that it would stumble into a hallucination. The boy soon drifted into a light slumber in the warm shade with a soft breeze rustling the leaves in the tree branches that arched above his head.

A bleating cry shredded the boy's soft sleep as he jolted awake. On his feet in an instant, the boy wielded the shepherd's crook like a weapon as he looked around the field. He counted the sheep quickly, scanning the field for the fluffy, ground-bound clouds that devoured grass and gave wool. The boy's blood ran cold as he realized that he was missing a sheep. The sheep and the crops were the only source of the boy's family's income. If he had lost a sheep, it would mean a great loss of income, especially after the expensive trip to the city and the pills for the illness.
The boy counted the sheep again and again, making sure that he hadn't missed one. He ran out from under the shade of the tree and into the warm sun. There were eighteen sheep in all and the boy could only see seventeen. He quickly ran to the outskirts of the field to see if one had wandered into the forest (which had never happened before, for the sheep did not like the dark and menacing forest).
As the boy circled the field, he saw two sheep, a few hundred feet ahead, getting dangerously close to the outskirts of the field. The boy picked up his pace, in order to gather the sheep and head home after his search. As he kept his eyes on the sheep, he heard a rustling up ahead. The bushes shook violently as something sleek and gray darted from the bushes at the entrance of the forest. It ran from the dark green of the forest straight towards one of the two sheep. The boy broke into a run, screaming and flailing his arms, trying to scare the sheep away from the beast. The boy was too slow as the gray, four-legged monster snatched one of the sheep around the throat. The sheep let out a wet, gurgling cry as it was overpowered by the wolf. The wolf shook the sheep by the throat until it stopped squirming. The white wool of the sheep stained red from the blood pouring from its throat.

“NOOOOO!” The boy screamed. The wolf ran back into the forest, prize still dangling from its jaws. The boy looked at the remaining sheep. Terrified by the commotion, they had gathered near the center of the field. The boy was torn between saving his sheep, and making them walk slowly back to the farm, or running full speed to grab his father and the townspeople to hunt down the wolf. The boy took one last look at the sheep, thinking that they would be safe, now that the wolf had made a meal of two of his sheep. He took off running down the gentle slope along the trail that turned into a dirt road in the direction of his house.
As soon as the boy saw his house he began to shout for his father.
“PAPA! Grab your gun, Papa! A wolf! A wolf has come and has eaten two of my herd! Papa!” The boy cried as he saw his father, toiling in the field. The father was immediately on his feet and running into the house to retrieve his gun. A few other people had left their housed to see what the noise was about.
“Help!” The boy yelled to several of the confused villagers. “A wolf! A wolf has come to devour my sheep!” Some of the villagers returned to their homes and came back out with pitchforks and axes. By this time, the boy's father had returned to his side.
“Follow me!” The boy's father boomed as they took off towards the field. Seven villagers including the boy and his father ran along the dirt path, up the hill to the field where the sheep had been grazing.

They reached the field in only a few short minutes going at the fast speed they had maintained. The group of sheep were still standing where the boy had left them. They bleated and cried in terror, unknowing of the situation that surrounded them.
“Spread out,” the boy's father said in his thick, booming voice, “To the edges of the field! Find the wolf and kill it on sight! Hack it to pieces if you have to!”
The father went to the center of the field where the rest of the herd remained. He counted the heads in the mass of wool once, twice, a third time before turning to the boy. A look of pure rage contorted his face.
“Count the sheep, boy,” the father said, his voice in a deathly low tone.
The boy did as he was told. Eighteen sheep stood there.
“But Papa! I sa-”
“Do you think we have time for your silly little games, boy?!” The father said, cutting his son off. The father walked closer to the son. “DO YOU! Do you think that we can just waste away all of our time?! Do you think that we do not have money to earn in the fields?” The father's rage grew, angry at the wasted time and the embarrassment of the scene that his son had caused. The father's hand swung, slapping the boy with an open palm across the face.
The father turned to the men that had gathered to watch. He told them that his son was sick in his head, and that he wasn't thinking right. He apologized to the men, then thanked them for their wasted time, and told them that they could return to their work. The men walked back as a group to the village. The boy and his father stayed behind and watched the men descend down the slope to the village.

The father turned to the boy and simply shook his head.
“Gather the sheep. Return home. You will have no supper tonight for your own stupidity. Your pills were supposed to cure this... this illness, so I can only assume that you didn't take your pills.”
“Papa, I'm so-”
“I don't want to hear it,” said the father as he turned to walk back to the village. The boy slowly walked back to the spot where he dropped his crook. He then gathered up the sheep and led them back down to the village, behind the small crowd of people and behind his father.
The boy, arriving in town several minutes after his father, put the sheep back into their pen and went inside. His mother was standing in the kitchen, her sewing supplies discarded on the table. She gazed at her son with a disappointed look in her sorrow-filled eyes. She shook her head and sat back down, turning her stinging gaze back to her sewing.
The boy went to his room to lay down on his undersized and dirty mattress covered in home made quilts. The boy had slept in the field much longer than he intended to and it was now late in the afternoon, but he was exhausted from all the running and the excitement. He lay down on his bed and fell asleep in a seconds.
The boy opened his eyes and looked out the grimy window above his bed. The sky was a deep blue, littered with stars. The moon, not nearly full, hung low in the sky. The boy sighed heavily and sat up in bed. He knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep, having slept so much earlier.
The boy crept from his room and past his parents'. He walked down the hallway, through the kitchen, and out the front door. As soon as he was outside, the boy's skin prickled at the feel of the cool night air. It was crisp and the boy could see his breath puff out in small clouds. He decided to walk back up the road that led to the field where his day went sour.

Along the way, the boy replayed the events of the day in his head. He felt stupid. He felt weak. He felt disabled. All because of the stupid illness that poisoned his brain and sickened his mind. He didn't ask for this. Why should he be punished? Why should he have to suffer like this? Was his life not hard enough as it is? The boy was angry at everything. Angry at himself, for succumbing to what must have been a figment of his mind. Angry at his father for striking him when he knew it wasn't the boy's fault. Angry at God for cursing him with an ill mind. For something that he couldn't comprehend.
The boy reached the field, still thinking of how bad the day was. He walked to the tree that he sat under at the beginning of the day, when he was enjoying the sun and the breeze and the fresh air. The boy stood under the large tree, staring at the fringes of the field. The ominous black that seemed to ooze forth from the surrounding forest gave the boy chills. He didn't like that forest, not at all. It had always given him unease, but the field was the best grazing spot for his sheep, so he simply blocked out the menacing forest every time he took his sheep to graze. But this time, the boy was not afraid, he was enraged. The boy stared into the forest defiantly, daring it to make a move.

A rustling sound came from the bushes and the boy's blood turned to ice in his veins. The hairs on the back of the boy's neck stood up. The boy's skin felt as if it had been electrified. The boy saw a shape seep smoothly from the underbrush of the forest. The boy was rooted to his spot as he saw the creature walk slowly towards him. The moonlight was shining on the beast perfectly, illuminating every curve of its magnificent silver fur. The monster was still several hundred feet away, but the boy could tell that there was something more than a little off with this wolf. He couldn't put his finger on it though. He tried to run, he tried to get himself to move, tried to uproot his thousand-pound feet from the grassy ground. The wolf began to pick up speed as he approached, heading straight towards the boy. As the wolf got closer, the boy's blood grew colder and colder, sending shivering spiders of ice down the boy's back. The boy began to see the wolf more clearly as it advanced. The boy realized that this was no ordinary wolf. This was a creature directly from a deep pit of Hell. No wolf looked like this. The beast's jaws hung open slightly, its distended gums protruding far from its snout. Jagged teeth like shards of glass, slick with hot, sticky saliva, glistened in the yellow moonlight. It's mouth was a gaping crevasse that reached all the way back to under it's eyes. This gave it the sinister appearance that it was smiling horrifically. The eyes that didn't look like eyes. They looked like chasms. Like abysses. Like holes in the existence of the world, where nothing lives but fear. A black liquid ran thickly from the wolf's eyes as it stalked towards the boy. The thing's spine was arched and rigid, its padded paws angled awkwardly, but still it was advancing faster and faster.

Not quite running yet, but a slow trot. Not even a hundred yards away. The boy finally managed to tear himself from his rooted position. He screamed and ran for the village. The Hellhound broke into a sprint too, chasing the boy.
“HELP ME!” The boy screamed at the top of his lungs. “HEEEEEEELLLLLLP!!!”
The boy's strong legs pumped up and down as battery acid ran through his veins and fire filled his lungs. The inhaled breaths burned the boy's throat as he tried to outrun the demon chasing him. The village grew closer and closer, but so did the wolf. The boy could hear it running up behind him. Its grotesquely positioned paws gaining speed behind the terrified boy.
“Someone help me! Please! HELP ME!!!” The boy cried out again. He reached the edge of the village and saw the sleepy people begin to leave their houses, some held improvised weapons, others held nothing. The boy reached the small crowd of people, clothed in their night gowns, and screamed, pointing wildly behind him, “WOLF!” The people looked behind the boy, and did nothing. The boy came to a halt in front of the crowd.
“Why are you standing here?! Do something! The wolf is coming!” The boy screamed at the villagers. Finally, the boy hazarded a look behind him, turning to see what the villagers were waiting for. There was nothing there but the empty dirt road that sloped up the hill.
“No...” The boy whispered. “It was there! I saw it! The wolf was chasing me!”
Suddenly, the boy's father was upon him. He grabbed the boy by the back of the neck and dragged him back home. The boy squealed in pain as his father's unrelenting hand had a vice grip on the boy's skin. The boy watched as the people dispersed back into their homes. Some muttering curse words, some shaking their heads. The father dragged the boy to his room, kicked the door open and shoved the boy inside.

“We need to talk in the morning,” was all the father said before slamming the door shut and stomping back into his own room. The boy sat down on his bed as tears welled up in his eyes. They overspilled and came running down his cheeks. Hot, salty tears of anger and shame that stung worse than his sore neck from the hand of his father.
The boy sat on his bed, hating himself for his own stupidity, cursing everything about his life. And then, like a clap of thunder, and idea erupted into his head. He silently crept from his room for the second time that night. As the boy slowly walked down the short hall and into the kitchen, he formulated the plan more and more. The boy knew that his father had kept his gun on a shelf near the front door. All he needed to do was to make sure it was loaded. He was going to prove to his father that he had seen the wolf. He was going to hunt it down and shoot it.
The boy retrieved the gun from the shelf. It was an old and rusted shotgun, but the boy knew it worked, and it worked well. Cracking the gun open, the boy saw that two shells were in the barrels. The boy shouldered the gun and quietly opened the door, sneaking out into the cold night air with thoughts of heroism in his head.

In the field once again, the boy headed straight for the edge, where the trees loomed, mimicking the gates of Hell in the boy's mind. The wolf had come out of the bushes near same spot both times. The boy took the shotgun from his shoulder and aimed it in front of him. The boy marched into the forest fearlessly. He knew that, with a shotgun, nothing could hurt him. Perhaps if the boy had broken from delusion now, maybe if he had snapped from his fantasy world, he would have been able to save himself. He could have turned back and returned to the village. He could have sneaked back into his house, placed his father's gun back on its shelf, and climbed back into bed. He would have had to deal with his father, but that would be okay, his father would get over his rage and embarrassment. The boy could have been able to save himself if his illness didn't have such an iron grip on his poor mind.
But no. The boy continued to walk into the forest for some time. He was entirely silent as he marched, gun in hands. As the boy walked, he suddenly heard a rustling noise. He stopped in his tracks. The boy heard the rustling again from a bush to his right. He swiveled and fired into the bush. The kick from the gun was much greater than he expected, and the gun flew backwards into the boy's gut, knocking the wind out of him and sending him falling backwards. As the boy tried to stand back up, ears ringing. He saw a pair of eyes in the bushes directly in front of him. When the boy had fallen the gun fell too. It lay a few inches from the reach of his left hand. The boy rolled to his stomach and tried to crawl over to the gun. He was too late. The wolf flew from bush and landed directly on the boy. Its jaws opened, revealing sharp, canine teeth. This was not the wolf that had chased the boy too town. This was not the wolf that the boy thought had eaten his sheep. This was just a regular wolf.

The wolf's breath reeked of rancid meat and dead things as it snarled and bit into the screaming boy's skin. The gun was still out of the boy's reach, and the wolf dragged the boy further back, tearing into his skin, lacerating his flesh, causing blood to flow from ragged wounds.
“WOLF!” The boy cried. “WOLF!” He repeated. That was all he could gurgle as the wolf tore into the boy, eating him alive. Fighting back against the wolf's strength was useless. “WOLF!” The boy cried.

The cry managed to reach the village. The cry managed to reach the house of the boy. The cry managed to reach the boy's father's ears. The father woke up and heard the scream. He simply shook his head, cursing his son and his illness. Cursing God for cursing him. The man then went back to sleep, sure that his boy was fine, simply in another one of his delusions. He was too tired to care. To tired to listen to his son's insanity in the night.

“Wolf!” The boy cried weakly, and then his world went dark as dark crimson blood ran from open wounds and colorless tears ran from his open eyes.

I actually wrote this for my English mock final exam as we had a question "Explore the theme 'escape' in a form of writing of your choice." this is not the original, but what i remembered of it when i got home after the exam. the original used the word 'escape' about 10 times more to please the markers, as school isn't about learning maths, or english, or physics, or whatever. It's learning how to please those above you.

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Alright, people. I’m here because I need your help. I haven’t got a lot of time (it’ll be dark soon, you see). All I need is a name. It’s too late for me, I won’t be able to do much, except pass on the name. That’s the key, the key to staying alive, is to the name. Reminds you of Doctor Who, right?

Everytime the Doctor figures out the name of the thing, what it is, it stops in its tracks, and he says something witty or figures out how to beat it, or at least he gets to run away with his sidekick. Damn, Doctor Who. Nerdy as fuck reference at a time like this. But I’m frazzled. Sun’s going down. Then it’ll come for me.

It started last summer. I just got my Bachelor’s Degree in Philosophy (sounds like a fucking waste of money, but I already had a job lined up, so, lucky me, I guess) and my half-brother, his girlfriend and I were roadtripping all over Europe. We’re all spoiled rich white kids, except my half-brother’s girl friend, Sarah. She’s spoiled rich and Greek.

Anyway, we did the whole damn thing, starting in England and France and then all around the whole continent, and it was really cool. An amazing experience, even if it ate up a lot of money. We planned to end the trip in Greece, where Dave’s (that’s my half-brother) girlfriend’s family owned some estate on an island. She and Dave kept joking about hooking me up with one of her cousins, and I was getting pretty excited for it.

Plus, I really had gotten into my major, and Greek mythology, so I was hoping to learn all sorts of cool stuff, and maybe see some ruins.I saw them, all right, and I wish I fucking hadn’t. But I’ll get there.

So we get to the island, and we meet Sarah’s family, and her cousin’s are hot alright, fucking gorgeous, but they don’t want anything to do with me. In fact, they seem more interested in Dave, which pisses off Sarah more than anything else. So she decides to use me as an excuse to get Dave away from them, and go see some caves on the other side of the island. Which hurts my chances with these fabulous Greek ladies even more, but hell, I’m a nerd; caves are cool, and I wanted to see ‘em.So off we go.

And when we get there, it’s everything you’d expect. The beaches were all white sands, beautiful, and sunny. These caves were volcanic or something, I dunno, but the rock was all black and shiny, like, perfect photo contrast. Anyway, Sarah’s leading the way, chatting us up the whole time, clinging to Dave. I can tell they’re getting all romantic, and they never really wanted me along in the first place (I had just been an excuse to get away) so I decide to do the polite thing.

I know, I know, you never go off alone in a scary movie or that shit, but I was on a tiny, beautiful, sunny island in Greece, couldn’t have been more than a square mile, and I had a flashlight.So as David and Sarah stay in the main chamber of the cave, sucking face, I flick on my flashlight and head deeper into the caves, and I can tell it’s kinda veering off to the right, and down a little, but I’m not worried, see, that’s the big difference. In horror movies and scary stories you always get worried before the bad stuff happens, but I didn’t.

No hairs standing up, no goosebumps, just calm. And I can still breath fine, and walk fine (just crouching down a little) when suddenly the floor was gone. I fell for a few seconds into pitch blackness.

I hit the ground hard. I would find out later that I fractured my tailbone, but at the time it was just a dull hurt. I had fallen on what felt like a bunch of dry sticks, and I had dropped the flashlight. Still, I wasn’t panicking yet; the flashlight had been one of those super-sturdy mag-lights, and I was sure I could find it. That kind of confidence, my friends, is rewarded.

My fingers closed around the cool metal of the light and I’ll admit, there was a brief moment where I was afraid to turn it on. I murmured a quick little prayer to Whoever was listening, and let my thumb pause awhile before pushing down the rubber button. The flashlight flicked on right away, but I almost wished it hadn’t, because I could see the floor all around me, and what had felt like old, dry sticks. Bones.

Really old ones. I mean, like, these could’ve been Socrates’ bones, that’s how old they were, crunching away underneath me. After about a minute, I got over my panic, and started looking around a little, objectively.There were a lot of bones, enough to cover the floor of the ten foot by ten foot space. The walls were thick black, the same volcanic material of the rest of the cave, except for one point, about five feet off of the ground, were something had been painted on the wall in red.

A circle. Just a harmless, unobtrusive circle, albeit one that was painted in a dulled crimson that almost had to be human blood. I suppressed a shiver and walked over toward it, my feet crunching on them bones them bones them dry bones (ha-ha), and I get right up close, shining the light on it, and still, it looks innocent enough, just out of place. So I reached my finger up and gently tapped the red circle.

Then I felt it. All of the fear and anguish and horror that I should’ve felt when I first fell into the place. I could feel something, like blood and screams and pain washed over the walls of that tiny chamber like layers of paint, and before long I realize it’s me who’s screaming, not for help but just in this guttural, caveman fear.

Dave and Sarah found me almost right away. I don’t really remember them showing up, or pulling me out of that place, but I must’ve been screaming right up until they pulled me out, because for the rest of the trip, they kept asking me what I’d seen. I couldn’t tell them about the circle, I don’t know why.

Whenever they asked I’d just say “Bones. I saw Bones.” And for the most part, they left me alone. They had each other. The trip ended two days later, and I was incredibly relieved to get on the plane. Because since I had gotten out of that cave, I hadn’t been able to sleep. I’m not the kind of guy who can go days without sleep, hell, I don’t even like to stay up that late.

But the night after I got out of the cave, I just lay in bed, awake, unable to move, just feeling anxious all over. Every time I’d close my eyes, I’d feel the need to tear them open right away.The second night after the cave, the night before we left for home, was worse. It wasn’t just anxiety anymore. It was the feeling that something was making me feel anxious.

My eyes would scan the darkness constantly, obsessed with the feeling that there was some entity creeping along the edges of my vision, hunting me, watching me. I never saw anything, no monsters; just felt it.But the second I stepped foot on that plane, I felt safe. Secure. I slept the whole ten hours home, and felt well-rested enough to forget about the whole ordeal.

Until it caught up to me. I don’t know exactly how much time passed, not more than two weeks, and by then I honestly had forgotten about the creepiness. I had just started a management position at an office owned by a friend from college, and was adjusting (pretty well) to all the money I was going to be making.

Life was looking up, and I was happy, all was well, yadda-yadda-yadda. Then it caught up to me. The first night was the same, just anxiety, worry, the inability to sleep. I was concerned, but figured I was replaying the experience or was maladjusting to work or something. I tried to shut it rationally from my mind and get over it.

The night after that, I even got a little sleep. Of course, the third night, the anxiety was back with a vengeance, and I sat in bed all night, lights on, looking and listening for something, something that was out there, hunting. That was two weeks ago.

I know you don’t believe me. Ignoring all of the monster stuff, a person can’t go that long without sleep, but I must’ve. I can account for every single minute that’s passed these last two weeks. During the day, I’m fine. I did take naps, that’s probably what saved me. But every night, the anxiety would get stronger, and stronger, and the feeling that something was there would overwhelm me.

I knew it now, knew it was some tangible, existing monster, but I just couldn’t know what it was.If I could find out what it was, what it looked like, what it wanted, I could stop it...or fight it...or run. Who am I kidding? I know what it wants. It wants me. And even with a name, I won’t be able to fight it. But maybe, if I find out what it is, before it gets me, I’ll write its name on my walls. Or draw a circle. Time now, anyway. The sun’s set, and I can really feel it.

Tonight’s the night. It’s hungry.

I had to focus the storyline on the topics "Drowning" and "Nightmares" because i wrote it for a creepypasta imageboard (Ie, it needs to be somewhat scary too) -- the luck of the roll chose the topic for me so i had to work with what i was given, not an idea i liked.

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I can’t see. I can’t see. Everything is black. There is nothing. I have no senses but touch. Everything is just wet. I’m blind. I’m deaf. I’m nothing. I’m wet.

I try to move. The confusion is over. The panic is setting in. How did I get here? I try to swim. How deep underwater am I? My arms move slowly, as if the water is thick. Imagine trying to swim through syrup. How much air is in my lungs? It’s hard to tell. I open my mouth and a bubble comes out. It soars quickly past my head. At least something’s having an easy time moving around in here.

I’m kicking. I’m moving my arms as hard as I can. I can’t do this for long. It’s using up my air too quickly. What’s the plan when I’m out of air? Fuck, what’s the plan now? I have air and I still have no fucking clue. I feel like I’m not moving enough, no matter how hard I push. How far have I moved? It’s impossible to

Oh god. Oh Jesus. I just felt something. Was that a fish? It was a goddamn big fish, if it was. It touched my legs…oh my god there it is again. I can feel it. It’s swimming slowly. It’s still on me. It’s coming up. Up my shin…my thigh…my stomach…my neck.

No. No, god no, not this, not

again

I’m awake now. I’m shaking, sweating, gasping for air. I reach my hand over to hit the lamp and hit the wall, hard. Fuck, fuck that hurts. I try for the lamp again, and almost knock it off my table. I finally manage to get it on. I’m in my room again. It’s dry here. There’s air here.

Every night the same dream. Every night it goes on a little longer. I try to avoid thinking about it every morning, but I just can’t. Every morning I wake up out of breath. Every morning I have to wonder: what happens when the dream lasts too long? What happens when the fish reaches my head? What happens when I run out of air?

The nightmares started about a month ago. At first it was the black water, but it would only last a few seconds before I woke up. Every night it would get a little longer. These days I wake up with my lungs burning, starving for oxygen. I feel like I’m going to pass out as soon as I wake up. It’s just getting ridiculous.

I tried to see a psychiatrist about it. I hate those head doctors. All they do is take your money so they can pry into your life and tell you that you might be suffering from “long term effects of a traumatic experience on your mind” or something like that. Gibberish, all of it. Crazy head doctor kept asking if something had happened to me right before the nightmares started. Do I seem like someone who’s suffered anything but a few bad dreams?

I yelled at the doctor and left. Bunch of help he did me. I’ve been yelling at people a lot these days. Waking up every morning, reeling from your close call with death does wonders to aggravate the hell out of you. I just feel like I can’t be bothered with anything. Dumb shit just happens. And I know that no matter what, the dreams will get longer. I’ll suffocate more. I’ll have to

re.

live.

this.

Tommy.

shit.

over and over.

I’m having trouble even getting to work lately. My alarm clock has stopped waking me up. The dream plays through, regardless of any alarm I set. I’ve tried going to bed earlier so that I’ll wake up earlier, but that hasn’t worked either. I think the dream starts at a certain time, and runs until…well, the final time has yet to be decided.

I've been depressed lately. Part of it's been the dream. The other part's this accident that happened a while back. A kid died. I was there when it happened. I was at a public lake, fishing. A kid was there, maybe seven or eight years old. He was with who I assume was his dad. The dad was drinking, and barely paying attention. The kid was wading in the shallowest part of the lake.

I work as a lawyer. I generally defend criminals. It's not what I particularly wanted, but it's what I got. I once defended a man who found out his girlfriend was pregnant, panicked, and killed her. I once defended a woman who killed her baby because it wouldn't stop crying. I don't care about these people, but I care about my job. It's my career. My life. This is my world. Not care, in order to survive. Ive gotten used to it. Conditioned to instinctively not care.

The shallowest part of the lake was between where the father was drinking and where I was fishing. It was just a bit closer to me. The kid decided to try and swim where the water got a little deeper. He wasn't quite ready for it. He started flailing. He was panicking. Shouting.

I figured the dad would get it.

I moved fishing spots. Now that kid's gone. His name was Tommy. At least, that's what I have to figure. That's what the dad kept yelling. The dad did try to get him. It was just a bit too late.

The head doctor was stupid. What did I have to feel guilty for? It wasn't my fault. It was the dad. Stupid drunk bastard. I didn't do anything. I had no reason to feel bad. And I don't. There's no guilt. I'm just tired.

Tired and curious.

I wonder how the dream will end.