Tuesday, September 18, 2012

A Broken Cycle

The cherubic face was so out of place on the hulk of a man that those around him were captivated by his seemingly innocent charm.

But there was nothing innocent about the man. I knew him from before, knew of his twisted and demented  passion. A passion for inflecting pain.

He was close enough that I could say nothing without tipping my hand so I tried to communicate my pleas for help with facial gestures, head nods, and body shrugs. Those I sought help from acknowledged my urgency, but when they looked into the man's boyish face they dismissed my concern.

I knew what would come next. I had lived this nightmare before. Eventually I would manage to struggle awake drenched in my own sweat but not before the tortures I was yet to experience set my heart drumming and my pulse  pounding.

And then a new face, a person who had not been there before. A small thing, but enough for my subconscious to accept the dream need not play out as before.

I woke gasping for breath, the ethereal arms of my would be tormentor trying to drag me back into sleep - and almost succeeding as the wooded lot of my dream solidified - superimposed over my bedroom walls.

Reaching for the switch on the bedside lamp, I half expected my movement to be blocked and my hands trussed behind my back as had happened in past occurrences of this nightmare.

Relief washed over me as light flooded the room. The hulking man with the cherubic face was banished. Yet I fought the return of sleep for hours to come.

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