Daymare (DISCONTINUED)

Chapter 6

As a warning, i was in a really depressing mood when writing this, so don't let it make you sad! I don't want that to happen, so heads up :)

'Asking please, as colours fade, I need to breathe, before I turn the world to grey' ~ Human Interaction by Tonight Alive

 Groaning lowly while stretching his limbs, Archie stumbled out of his bed and into his en-suite bathroom.

Pushing his head up to face the mirror, he gasped in shock. His reflection screamed a loss of control. He looked almost unrecognisable.

Granted, the nightmares were recurring again; he had not had a decent night's sleep in days. The weird thing was that the nightmares always contained the same daunting characters: two middle aged men, coated head to toe in undeniable mischief. These men had no names, as they never did seem to name the other. One look at them and you would know that they were up to no good.

In the nightmares, the two men would always mess about, nothing too serious. But things would always take a rapid turn for the worse. They'd start shouting, taunting, sneering. At each other. Aggravation and hate would be lit in their wittily blown eyes like a forest fire, flames dancing wind, spitting with everlasting venom.

Each night a different outcome would occur. And the burning screams would stay vividly printed in Archie's memory.

When he woke up, he could sometimes taste the bitter, burnt ashes that fell on the floor after the inevitable squabbles. When he woke up, he could always remember in gaudy flashing images what he had previously witnessed in his sleep. Always.

Archie knew that this wasn't supposed to happen.

The things that occur in his dreams surely couldn't come across like they actually took place; the thought itself was highly illogical. But these were not just ordinary 'bad dreams'. They were nightmares. And it was their job to make a withering mess of the one they were set on controlling. Keeping this in mind, so far, they have done a pretty damn good job.

He had managed to avoid rocking up at work the past few days, always listing the several excuses he had learned to love. Although, time was cutting short and one way or another he had to show up again, or suspicions would rise. Well, assuming that they hadn't already rose.

The toll of the problematic case also didn't help with his unease towards the modern world.

Thirty minutes later, Archie shrugged on his coat and was throwing on a pair of brown boots before heading out the door. The town was unnaturally quiet that morning but he didn't think twice over it. As he strolled past multiple well known shops on the high street he turned a corner through a dingy path, entering a place he found most comforting. It was nothing special, but held a significant place in his heart that no amount of class could waver.

To most this spot would be suited to someone of the lower class; very poor people with no respect brushed on them or the homeless. Definitely not for someone who was respected for being an agent and a part of the higher class. Cleaning the single bench scattered carelessly on the muddy ground he sat and thought about what qualities he had to offer to the world. Nothing came to mind.

Not many people knew of this growing depression, as when you first meet him, Archie will come across a happy and sociable young man. But deep down anger bubbled and self-hate pulsed through his veins. Because of this, his depression grew on him.

His past ruined him. The strange thing is that no-one knows what happened. He had made up a fake childhood, said that his entire family was killed in a faulty aeroplane crash; he had no living relatives left.