The Nightmare

Not sure if this would really count as horror, but I didn't find any "psychological mindfuck" anywhere...so...this was the best.

Enjoy 

-Hana

Mommy, it's so cold in here. So cold and dark. Mommy, can I go home now?

She stretched out her hands towards the dark, dim ceiling, waiting for someone to gather up her thin, pale body and take her home. Somewhere nice and warm. She hadn't been home for a while now. How long was it since she had last seen Mommy? When was she ever going to take her home? She had been a good girl, and had waited patiently for the last...how long has she been here? Ah, she lost track at day twenty-two hundred and ninety-six.

The frail girl slowly rose from her tattered, worn bed and staggered towards the door of her room. They said it was night-night time for her, but she wasn't sleepy. She wanted someone to play with her. She ran a rather white hand through her tangled, matted raven waves as steely grey eyes searched the room intently, looking for the one person who never left her. Ah, there he was. Poor little thing, rammed inbetween two wooden shafts, all for the sake of keeping safe from the mean men in white. The girl gently took him in her arms, his black button eyes staring back at her coolly, the smile sloppily stitched across his brown cloth face greeting her pleasantly. Emmy...I was so scared, why did you leave me?

Emma pouted innocently, gingerly carrasing the red string hair swaying lazily in the air. The mean doctors said that they were going to take you away. I had to put you somewhere. She wasn't sure why, but every time she talked to Booboo, her gray, thin lips never moved. Their minds were connected, she knew; he knew how she was feeling, what made her feel better, even what she was thinking. It never unnerved her though. In fact, the pale little girl would not have any other way.

When did she start talking to Booboo? Possibly when she was younger, and Mommy didn't allow her to go outside and play. Emma fell back towards the old cot, the springs pressing against her back familiarly. Mommy never let her do anything. She never even let her get out of the house! The then four-year old girl would have to resort peeking through broken blinds and watch the other children play. They laughed and giggled and cried. Together, with other people...that fact caused her to feel undoubtedly jealous, a whirl of envy boiling in her stomach. Why can't I have a friend? she often wondered.

And then, she found him.

He was torn pretty badly, from what Emma could see. His button eyes were barely hanging by a string, and his cotton stuffing seemed to pop out of every stitch. But no matter. She could fix him, she knew she could. And she did, clumsily repairing the multiple tearings, pricking her fingers multiple times as she carefully tried sow the arm back together. To any other person, one glance to the doll would have left a shiver down their spine. But to Emma, he was perfect.

He talked to her often, filling in the empty void in her heart. Booboo, as she fondly named him, told her of the many things he had seen in his short fabricated life: about the little girl who dropped him as she was dragged away by a mean man, the cruel boy who tore him apart for fun, all the way to the child who forgot him in the mud as she ran back to her home.

Don't worry Booboo, I'll never, ever, leave you.

And for the next two years, she never did. She no longer felt the strong jealousy burn in her heart; instead, she happily made friends with the pretty doll. Her mommy never asked questions, only observed her cynically through drugged-up eyes. And so, their lives in the run-down shack was relatively quiet. Until, that day.

But that was almost ten years ago. Right now, Emma needed to find a way to get back home. Maybe not to Mommy; she was sometimes mean to her, but away from the scary men in white and the sharp needles that regularly entered her sickly flesh. Closing her eyes, the short-haired girl danced aimlessly across the small, dark room, relishing the damp air against her skin, imagining being out of the asylum and making pretty pictures with her special knife.