Darkness is a mystery in itself. It lurks in bright moments, awaiting its prey. It sits patiently, postponing the chaos and catastrophe that it can unleash. It doesn't target nor does it care about its victims. It kills with no sympathy. No heart. No soul. Just bitter cold.
Sometimes I sit on my bed, weird thoughts running through my head. Sometimes I get dreams where its chasing me. Sometimes I feel icy and bitter like ash. Sometimes I wake up with too much stamina and satisfaction. I get surges out of the blue. Waves of power and strength. I can never remember these dreams, or what happens in them. I just remember the sand timer at it's last moments and the point where everything turns grey. I know it's not normal. Even though people think it's just an act of pretence or a nightmare.They also say i'm not alone however the isolation in my voice disagrees. Or, even better, "a phase" that i'm going through. But its just so much more than that. Nightmares don't haunt you for eternity. They don't make you sick to the point that you must gasp for air, and choke it down along with the memories of tunnels and alleyways and sand timers.
Every night I look at the stranger in the mirror and wonder where it all went wrong. I stare into my own broken blue eyes with a shameful expression. Then my eyes usually glance down at my clothing. It's always black now. Just a simple black shirt that I live in, and black leggings which now bare the holes and stains of time and locations. My hair is always a cyclone of knots and curls, a dirty blonde mess. It feels as though I am the ghost of myself. Like I've ran away from my soul and now its just my body. And then I sink into my duvet; allowing sleep to take me away, welcoming it not as a stranger, but an old friend.
YOU ARE READING
Clouds Leading To The End
HorrorChristy has lived in a world where shes always felt isolated from everyone else. She gets nightmares every night but can only remember certain details. Yet every small detail could lead her to one big discovery.
