Nightmare.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A nightmare I had a few nights ago.

Submitted: April 12, 2008

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Submitted: April 12, 2008

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If you've ever seen fireworks on the fourth of July; or flying, ultraviolet sparks from behind the mask of a welder's helmet, then you're familiar with the penetration of dark with light. Or if you've ever seen that old film where the Russians detonate the "Tsar Bomb" back when it was still the Soviet Union; where first all you see is night- a pitch black velvet screen. Then boom! The combination of a vibrant aluminum, magnesium, and titanium explosion. Then boom! The ignition of high voltage and metal. Then BOOM! It's the end of the world.

This was sort of how my dream began. Then I was running. High blades of grass were cutting into the folds of skin on my face. What I was running from was sort of how I've just described.

It's the end of the world and all you can do is run.

What some may constitute the end of the world as a "quick bright flash... then nothing." Others may have the expectation of an explosion.

"D-day."
An "apocalypse."
"The final battle."
"Armageddon."

Sound familiar?

Whatever religion, the world comes to an end at least once.

Whether you believe in Heaven or Hell; an afterlife, an eternal rest, or even reincarnation. This is the last time around. I hope your last past life didn't suck as hard as this one.

This is all I can think about while I'm running.

The high grass eventually comes to a clearing. It's a city landscape. The street lights are merely a weak, candle flame on the verge of its own demise. A fleeing smoke cloud compared to the destruction falling all around me.

I'm still running. Everybody is running. Like chickens without heads.

I catch my breath beneath a dim, lamp post. All of this is senseless.

There a door propped open. A white door all chiseled with age. I walk through and begin bolting up the staircase. The piss stained staircase.There's a clapping echo that follows me up each diagonal set of stairs.
"One, two, three... four... five...six" TURN "One, two, three... four... five...six" TURN.
This went on for quite some time.

I thought I was dead. I thought maybe the building had collapsed and I already died. I was in Hell and my punishment was to run up an efinitie flight of six sets of stairs, never slowing down or stopping.
I hadn't tried to stop.
I was afraid that if I did stop, I'd still have to go through the process of death. This way, I was already dead and I could just run. I'd just run and imagine what happened to everybody else. Like that Greek God, Atlas. The one who was sentenced by Zeus to endlessly hold the weight of the Heavens on his shoulders. What would happen if Atlas had just stopped. What would happen to everyone in Heaven?
...If anyone had made it there...
What would happen if I had just stopped running?

I wasn't dead.

There was no door when I reached the top level. Just a doorway. A beaming doorway.

The penetration of dark with light.

I was expecting to see the St. Peter of Hell there waiting for me.

There was a crowd of people all hovering over each square inch of the roof. I couldn't see anymore buildings, no more destruction. Just a crowd of people all trying to breath on the same beat to make it easier.
There were even crowds in death, I thought.
Everybody was crying. Some were on their knees. I managed to push myself through the crowd.
And there....
There like antelope grazing around a waterhole...
There like a bustle of citygoers all trying to hail a cab...

There was... Jesus?

Jesus was in a wheelchair, covered in a blanket you'd find a cat resting upon. It's fringes were all loose at the seams. He seemed old. All tired. I thought Jesus was suppose to be this handsome figure, bearded and glowing. His arms all raised with doves circling him. Nope.

It looked like he had all but six strands of hair. He called me over to Him. I didn't know what to do, so I kissed his hand. Like you do when you see the Pope or something. I thought it was polite. Even if he was old and tired. The next thing I know, he's choking me. Jesus is choking me! I can feel my throat closing and molding itself into a melted, plastic bag. If you've ever lit a plastic bag on fire, you know it eventually disappears.
"Trust me," He says.

I ultimately let His skinny wrists go. I let Him choke me.

I look at the faces of the crowd and they look like a smudge of black ink. They don't even have faces anymore. Everything looks like a smeared Van Gogh painting.
"Starry Night" without the stars.

If you've never died in a dream before, then reality is the only thing you can feel. You know the Laws of Gravity, how to operate a motor vehicle and drive to your place of employment each morning where you have a damn boss to kiss ass for a pay check, that it's fucking freezing when you step outside in a T-shirt midwinter, you know the alphabet- you remember writing your name in Alphabet soup on the rim of your tiny, little bowl as a kid. These are things you should know. Things you should remember. You should know logic. Some of us do anyway.

But when you die in a dream, you honest to God think you're dead. Reality feels like the dream. Like death is the only thing you've ever known. When you wake up in sweat, stained sheets and you're clenching your pillow like in that "Metallica" song, you can't even remember who you were. You forget what you're face looks like. And the next thing you know, you're praying to God you're alive! Then you drink a cup of coffee and you smoke a cigarette. And your dreams enters a memory bank. It just disintegrates. Then you only know logic. You have another cigarette.

You know only the order of life like numbers, like the alphabet, like days on a calander.

The penetration of light with dark....


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