Merry Christmas to you all from me and the little one!
After quite some time of being dreamless, I had two separate but equally as unsettling dreams last night.
Dream entry from: December 25th 1:15 A.M.
This is my home. I lay in my familiar bed, the residual warmth of the blankets reassuring. I shift to my other side, rolling to face my door which is partly cracked open like always. My heart stops, forget to beat momentarily, there standing in the doorway is a child. A boy no older than four, his appearance is like static, I can’t seem to focus on him long enough to form any details. My mind is awash with a fear so crippling I forget to breath, as my muscles lock in denial, rationally I know I shouldn’t be afraid but a primal part of me knows this child isn’t human. A part of me is compelled to get out of bed, I move tword the child as he lifts an all too thin hand to grasp mine. I reach out to take it, but upon touching it I almost immediately recoil, his touch burns, not like fire, but the kind of burn that comes from holding something so terribly cold. I realize now he is dead. Though the child hasn’t said one word to me, he watches, and in that stare I can tell…feel…that he wants me to take him somewhere. I’m terrified beyond belief, but I obey and lean down to pick him up. I carry him at my side, his arms looped around my neck, the burning persists. I feel that he wants me to take him to the backyard of the house. The glass doors slide open and I set him, barefoot, down onto the patio. Without another word he steps onto the grass, and walks forward into the earth, slowly descending until the tip of his head vanished beneath the blades of grass.
Nauseous, hazy, confused. Where am I? The world seems to be misted over, foggy, bright. Far too bright. White lights. Squinting. Ah, it dawns on me, my bathroom. I’m in my bathroom. My breathing comes in heavy, fast gasps. Gulps of air. My reflection in the mirror is blurred, like someone smeared all of my outlines. It feels like fire under my skin, crawling and scratching. I lean over the sink, my palms grasping the cool granite of the counter like a life raft. Something isn’t right, I’m sick. Sick. I can feel it sliding up my throat, a million little acidic spider legs wriggling up my esophagus. I fold over the sink and retch. Inky black ooze slides over my lips, splattering the sides of the sink, a second wave hits and more black matter paints the sides of the granite sink. It won’t stop coming. Never stops.
The dreams end here.