In a reoccurring nightmare I visit a place not even Stephen King can fathom. It’s a room made of four walls of metal, rusted and stained with blood, the room is so big I can’t see it all at once. Every sound echoes, but my screams are muffled. I smell iron; I don’t if it’s the walls or the blood dripping from face and other various parts of my body. I feel overwhelmed by anxiety, as if I’m waiting him to return. Although he’s not often there, when I do see him, he’s wearing all brown and has rough hands bigger than any I’ve ever seen. He has a deep voice. He enjoys nothing more than to hear me scream in horror. He will do anything he can for the satisfaction of me acting weak. I feel scared yet rebellious. There are nights where I cry just so he will leave, and other times I yell vulgarly. He has no name I know him only as man. Most recently man chained me to the wall by my wrists and ankles and hit me repeatedly with an open hand ordering me to show a sign of weakness. When I stayed silent he became enraged and grabbed a chain, he swung it at me and I yelled, not in pain but in frustration. I ordered him to keep hitting me, with phrases wrapped in foul language. He walked away and I saw his silhouette disappear into the dark. I felt angry. I wanted him to come back; I wanted to prove to him that I can be broken. Limply I hang from the wall plotting a way to win. I can hear myself think. Finally I have a plan, in my dream I know the plan but I can’t tell really what it is. Just as I get ready to carry out my plan, I wake up.
A Place From a Nightmare
December 22, 2009