Hate | Love

The Nightmare

(Chapter 6 of the Novel (end part))

The tremors were uncontrollable.

It felt like each nerve ending was dipped in frigid water that his whole body was shaking controllably. Type could not stop the shivering and the panic that assaulted his body.

As soon as Tharn stormed off, he turned the lights off and curled up in bed. Hugging his knees to himself as he was rocked by the shaking that spread like a plague from his rapidly beating heart all the way to every part of his extremities.

The air in the room felt thick. He could only gasp at portions of it and his throat felt dry.

He was having a panic attack; something he has not had for a very long time but snapshots of his past came rushing to his conscious mind. He tried to close his eyes to shut out the visions but it only managed to get more vivid but he could not stop them.

It felt so cold but he was sweating like it was the middle of summer.

"It's gone... he's gone... I'm okay..." he muttered to himself like a mantra, trying to convince himself that he was all right. But it only lulled him to sleep. A restless sleep where shadows lurked.

He could see himself in the nightmare. He was frail and thin and awkward like any 12-year-old boy. Not even on the verge of puberty. And there was the man. the bearded man who held his wrist, leading him towards a darkly lit dingy room at the back of an old building near the overgrown football field where he was playing football all by himself a few moments ago.

"Stop," Type cried in his sleep, "Don't go with him, please...don't go...help me!" he reached out his arms as if to grab at the boy he was seeing in his dreams, that boy who was himself.

"We're going to have so much fun," the gruff voice of the man echoed in his head. He could only whimper at the memory but he was witnessing everything like a horror movie was being played inside his head and he had no way of turning it off.

"Are you sure there are a lot of footballs here?" the child Type, looking at the looming figure of the man who had his wrist in a death grip. There was no sign of him being wary, he was too innocent and too trusting.

"Stop," Type was trashing in his bed, sweat pouring from every pore as his face contorted in horror. "Help me please... someone... please stop."

"Yes, come on. Hurry," the man pulled at the boy's hand not to gently.

"Sir, you're hurting me," the boy Type cried out, "I don't want to play anymore, I want to go home."

"No," came the man's reply, pushing the boy on a rickety chair in the middle of the dust filled room. "We are going to have fun, you'll see. I will make you feel very happy."

Type was sobbing. He could not do anything except watch as his younger self was tied to the chair with hemp rope. The fibers biting into the tender flesh of his wrists and ankles, burning and leaving angry red marks.

"Stop it...please," Type sobbed, "No...please... stop...I beg you, help me! Somebody, help me!"

The man in the dream was grinning. Seeing the handsome boy with his huge pleading eyes was getting him excited. He touched the boy's hair, bending down and looking at the boy's teary eyes up close.

"This is going to be fun," he whispered, his voice deep and hollow. Type could almost smell the rancid and stale breath that came from the man's mouth. He cringed as the man traced hard, calloused fingers on the boy's face, down towards his neck and slowly lifted the boy's shirt to caress at the tender young skin underneath.