The Broken Memories

CHAPTER 1

I woke up drenched in sweat, panting like I've been chased by an animal desperate to get air into my lungs, I had the nightmare again. It was like a horror movie except the horror part kept replaying itself, that isn't how it works. The suspense has to end eventually for an even more mortifying scene to take place. I've always hated horror. Not particularly because it scared me too much. I just hate the tension and sudden bomb drops. The lack of knowledge on what is to or not to come frustrates me, I do not care that it is just as simple as a movie, I want to know things so I can have the idea of what I am dealing with.

But I'm certain of one thing, what I dream of, in those restless night is not something I have no knowledge of, these are not nightmares. It's all too real. I feel it the way it is said should not be possible inside a dream, I've lived the nightmare. I feel that they are in some sort of way, like memories. My memories. They always come out in messy sequences, like watching an episode of a series but not in a chronological order from the first to the last or like a shattered glass bottle, to try putting it back together, one has to collect every little piece of it, in order to make it whole again but I couldn't quite manage to stick the pieces together even after having found every single piece. I was just stuck there, staring down at them not knowing what to do next. 

Everything I saw, it was all clear but felt very blurry at the same time, everyone and everything moved quickly, too vague to properly place a face or anything, people moved or rather floated in colourful cloud like mass, resembling a drawn aura. Perhaps I'm exaggerating but I simply can not explain it any further than that. 

One person and only that stood out more than the others. That is how the dreams always ended, and what makes me instead call it a nightmare. It was a man in a robe. Long, dark and heavy, It was covered in some kind of  deep coloured stain, It had a hood but he did not cover his head. Perhaps he really did kill me, judging from the blood on his attire, it's safe to assume just that. And his unusually long hair sweeping to his right blowing into the direction  of a wind I did not feel. Well I guess the last thing a dying person wouldn't have on they're mind is the feeling of the wind. His arms were on me, facing me but concentrating on my lower body. I remember this smell. The second sensory organ that seems to be functioning after my eyes. There seem to be quite a lot of it. Oh dear, I'm certain the the person it came from is certainly dead. I don't know which part of this got more of my attention then, fact that I knew of it's smell or that I thought it is from someone else but not me. He's towering over me, crouching to be exact, very still. He's not look at me though. His lips were firmly set, deep lines of concern run through his forehead, he's straining his eyes, focusing hard, making his eyebrows crease together. The long hair is not doing him any favour, especially in this odd weather whisking about his face covering his eyes. I want to have a better look at him. He is touching me but I cannot feel it, nor hear anything I realize. What on earth is taking so much of this man's attention. That is when I look down to see what has him so occupied, that he cannot spare a second to lift he's gaze. A thick metallic pungency of blood hits my nostrils again, this time even stronger. There is wetness everywhere, especially on me, a dark red thickness. I'm the one bleeding, soon to be dead. His hands are not on me.  They are on it, the source of the blood. A wound, like I was slashed open. I see it. A dagger with a pattern scribbled all over it's then visible part, it's blade is just half way into my lower abdomen, sticking out in an odd way. It takes me a few moments to let it all sink in. I process it, realization hits me. Time somehow seems slowed down during this particular scene. Slowly it started picking up pace. Oh my god. I'm here lying on a floor with a man on top of me, with his hands on a dagger and that is wedged in my body. What is he doing? Is he killing me or trying to stop the bleeding. How did I even get to this place. What is happening here? The physical feelings start kicking in too. Too quickly, I can feel it. Everything. The strong winds, the wetness of the blood all over me. My blood. The intense fear of my realization. A shooting pain all over my left side. He's weight on me and right hand at the wounded area. Why isn't he saying anything. What should he even be saying anyway. I start struggling, trying desperately to move away from him. I wince as the sharpness of the dagger edges slightly deeper into my guts, more blood spills. Oh god. Am I going to die. 

 He finally makes a movement, from his still posture before. He averts his eyes from where they have been stuck on for a very long time. He lifts his face from the bloody scene and looks at me. But it isn't a pleasant look. He's angry now. I can see the sudden change on his face. His eyebrows crease together even harder making him look fierce. Lips still a rigid frown. ''Stay still.'' He says to me in a harsh ragged tone, like he was exhausted and very much annoyed. His voice, it was commanding, that could intimidate you into succumbing to him even if it was a simple request. And before I could so much as blink, he moves again, this time it's his hands, he wraps both of them on the dagger and with what felt like all of the strength and force within him, shoves the the rest of the dagger into me.