A Strange Kind of Hunger | FIRST DRAFT

Darkness and Dreams

After leaving Robert's house, Jonathan goes home and reads up on parasites, on illnesses that afflict both humans and animals, on madness. None of it does anything to soothe the worry that gnaws at the back of his mind, an insistent growl underneath his thoughts. Now he feels feverish and shaky, small chills coming one second and passing the next; he knows he should rest, but he can't stand the thought of closing his eyes. That would mean allowing the dead faces free rein in his mind.

Eventually the words begin to blur into inky snakes, twisting and writhing on the page. He puts the book down, scrubbing at his eyes, wondering how long it has been since he last slept. Twenty-four hours at least; almost certainly more.

For a second, he allows himself to close his eyes and sink back into his chair. The feeling is pure bliss: balm for his aching bones, peace for his buzzing mind. Don't fall asleep. Don't fall asleep. Fighting against his heavy eyelids, he reaches for the book once more, only to find that his arm feels like cold, numb lead. He can't remember being this tired in his life; he read somewhere that after four days of sleep deprivation, hallucinations set in. That must be wrong, because every time he blinks, the woman is crouched in a corner.

Darkness closes in, and Jonathan dreams.

His dream begins with a swirl of nonsensical colours, colours he can almost taste and almost feel. Floating, falling at the same time, his dream-self writhes like a child learning to swim. He is so tiny, gazing out on a vast expanse of shimmering reds, purples, blues. So insignificant in the face of what he can only believe must be the entire universe rolled into one pulsating mass.The colours don't last forever. They fade and bleed and melt until his feet connect with hard, solid ground. His knees buckle from the impact; when he staggers to his feet again, he finds himself standing outside his house. It looks the same, exactly the same as it does in the real world, and yet undeniably wrong. 

Peeling, white-washed planks, grey-shingled roof, decrepit veranda where his father used to sit, bless his poor, rotten soul — everthing is in place, present and correct, but still wrong.

He takes a step closer. Moving in this false dream-world is slow and laborious, like trying to walk underwater. His legs move in slow-motion, and when his foot hits the ground it warps, sponging beneath his feet. As he moves the house begins to distort: first the the roof bows inward, then the walls buckle into things that can't even be called shapes — into faces. Grinning, shouting, screaming faces, frozen in silent expression. His stomach twists to see them, a convulsive shiver racing up his spine. They are the faces of the dead.

As he stares, transfixed, he begins to hear. Laughter, at first, then jeers, and finally screams. Screams that cut right through him, leaving blinding pain in their wake. Screams that force him to his knees, screams that sound as if they come from the very depths of someone's soul. Pressing his hands against his ears, he feels tears of agony spill from under his scrunched-closed eyelids and track their way down his cheeks. No matter how hard he tries, he can't block out what they're saying. You failed us. You let us die.

Just when he is sure he can't take any more, when he finally crumples, the screams stop. A hand settles on his shoulder. He doesn't dare to look up at first, not when he can feel a cold, wet nose snuffling at his hairline.

The voice, when it speaks, is very close to his ear. Its breath is hot.

"It's alright, child. You can get up now."

He does so, half-mesmerized, eyes still shut, and feels a guiding hand on the small of his back. Taking a hesitant breath, he realizes the thing, whatever it is, smells of freshly-dug earth.