Nightmares Reality

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is just a light sketch of a story. I'm unsure if I want to continue it though...

Submitted: February 19, 2007

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 19, 2007



Big fat snowflakes flung themselves against the window pane while the wind danced with the a nearby tree, forcing the branches to smack against the defenseless window. It was dark. The blinds were closed and the curtains were drawn. A dim trickle of light from out from under the door as well as a very soft glow from a small lamp situated on a very cluttered desk pierced the darkness. With the help from the meager light, one could see an odd and abundant assortment of dozens of posters glued, or tacked, or taped on the walls; posters of more than a dozen favorite movies, more than a few random rock bands, and one or two slightly modest swimsuit models, and tear outs of delicious looking food his mother probably never would cook from magazines.

Shirts, pants, and socks were strewn about the floor and if looked at closely enough, one could see that the carpet was of a light, neutral color. Two book shelves lined the wall opposite of the bed and were filled with every book imaginable. Medical books for a short I-want-to-be-a-doctor-and-save-the-world phase, dozens of fiction books that were either received as gifts or bought spontaneously, old library books that never made it back to the library, and quite a few books on film - a new phase of I-want-to-be-a-director-and-make-the-greatest-movies-ever. An electric guitar sat abandoned in a corner from that one summer when an attempt was made to learn how to play.

The bed was a mess as well - blankets all tangled and strewn about messily. Something under the blankets stirred and a groggy and slightly disoriented teenager by the name of David poked his head out from underneath the fabric. It was a cold morning. Too cold. Cold enough to get sick? Cold enough to freeze to death? Too cold. Much too cold. A shiver would make its way up his spine every few minutes. Apparently the heater wasn’t on even though it was below zero degrees outside. Or...or maybe it was just him. Maybe the house was warm and he was the only one who was freezing. A brief waft of soft wind softly, a draft from the window perhaps, lifted and blew about his dark, nearly black curls for a few moments as if it was a charismatic child toying with its father’s hair. He did not remember leaving the window open or opening it for that matter. The light wind, the way it gently wafted across his skin, disappeared as fast as it appeared. That was good. Maybe it had gone off by itself. Or maybe something turned it off. Hopefully it was the former for he didn’t want to think of things walking around the little house in the dark No sir-e. That wouldn’t do. At least the wind or breeze or whatever it was had stopped for that seemed to be the main sourceof cold air.

The thought that the shift in the air temperature was caused by a ghost of some kind flickered in his mind for a few seconds before a flash of color stole his attention away.

Dark brown eyes averted to the nightstand where he could just make out the outlines of a half a dozen prescribed pill bottles, which were empty. Nardil, Zoloft, Xanax, Klonopin, Valium, Inderal, and Tofranil were his daily medications which were all flushed down the toilet a few minutes ago. He wouldn’t take pills. Why? Because the possibility of him choking on one of those little capsules was higher than he would have liked (he did the math) and David was sure that the Hymlic maneuver would be at least a tiny bit painful. And...and what if he did take the pills and he did choke and the Hymlic thing doesn’t work? Would his brain cells die one by one from lack of oxygen until his body couldn’t command his heart to beat? Or...would some inexperienced person (his mother, maybe) try to dislodge the medicine by performing The Maneuver only to apply so much force that his ribs crack and pierced his heart and/or lungs, causing massive internal bleeding and eventually death? Anyways, they couldn’t really force him to take the pills since they had no control over his muscles controlling his swallowing. He was usually quite well behaved - even without the medication - but there were times that something would just set him off and scare him so much he would retreat to the safe corner of his room.

They said he had panic disorder, and then agoraphobia, and then a severe case of social phobia and then...they don’t know. Davie was a medical mystery, an enigma. He couldn’t concentrate for long periods of time...he...he was afraid of things a normal human being took for granted. Unless he was distracted, he wouldn’t ride in

a car. What if it crashed? What if he got hurt? What if the wind because so strong that it flung up the car and smashed it into a building? What if his father got hurt..? What if he died? He would wake in the middle of the night when there was a thunderstorm, trembling, because he could just imagine the window bursting open, sending deadly shards of glass flying at high speeds right towards him and..and then the glass would embed itself in his eyes and neck and he'd be blinded and slowly bleed to death...Or he would imagine it flooding outside and the water crushing their home and carrying the mangled debris along a swift current. What would they do? He couldn’t swim and...and...he didn’t want to drown.

There were times that he envied others for being, well, normal. And he just wanted to be...gone. If he was gone, it’d be a huge load off his parents’ shoulders financially and emotionally. There’d be no more pricey prescriptions. No more arguments about why he needed to take the pills his mother shoved before him. Thousands of dollars wouldn’t have to be wasted on visits to shrinks and doctors who claimed they could fix him. The hospital wouldn’t be their second home and those expensive MRIs and CAT scans and experimental drug therapies would be no more. If David was gone, they’d be the perfect family. The image wouldn’t be tainted with night terrors and anxiety attacks. Of course he never said anything about it; his mother would not her of such a thing. He wasn’t crazy, per se, just dysfunctional.

His eyes moved from the pill bottles to the alarm clock - the bright red letters were easily visible and proudly displayed the time as 6:32 am. He soon lost interest in the appliance and turned his attention to the snowflakes floating about outside. Listening to flakes of snow being blown aboutdid not require much thinking and so his mind let it roam, and think about other things. Primarily what would happen if it was discovered that he hadn’t taken any medication in the last week. He could just imagine his doctor bursting through the front doors and sprinting across the foyer and up the stairs and into his room while shouting curses in between scolds and brandishing a scalpel with his toupee tilted to one side. The reflection would have been quiet amusing seeing as though the doctor who attended to him was a bit on the chubby side and would have been nearly frozen ‘bout time he reached the front door, not to mention his shiny bald spot which he tried to conceal with that rag of a thing. But no. It was frightening to him and he pushed the thought away.

A hand reached up to rub his eyes, the other hand pushing the grey and green blankets, which had been strewn across his bed sometime the night before, away from his five foot four inch person. One bare foot, partially covered by the pair of loose gray pants he was currently wearing, found its way down to the carpet, and shortly followed by the other. As an after-thought he picked a blanket from his bed and wrapped it around himself before exiting the room. The fifteen-year-old stepped into the hallway where two days ago his mother had been rushing around the house packing this and that, checking that David couldn’t get into something he shouldn’t be getting into, and then going back to packing. She was leaving for a 'business' trip but David knew that his father knew that she really just wanted to get away from her husband and take some time for herself. His father worked as some financial corporate guy and was always in his office or on the phone, at least that's what his mother said. Sometimes he'd stay up with him when he had a nightmare, make a mess while attempting to make cookies for his kids and tell David stories about when his father took him out on camping trips when he was a kid.

But he didn't do that anymore.

There was this big 'deal' or something coming up and he was always locked in his study, typing away. He did come out once, though, in the past week, the day before, actually, to find David (he merely assumed that his father did the same thing to his sister) and he hugged him and said that he was proud and that he loved him. Davie didnt really think much of it - he always thought those small bursts of affection were just his father's way to letting out the building guilt of not spending enough time with his family.

Slowly Davie made his way down the stairs and to the kitchen. Today was his father's birthday and he was determined to make him some sort of breakfast without burning down the house. Ten minutes later he had piled a tray full of food - coffee, buttered toast, slightly burned sausages, scrambled eggs with cheese, grapes and some fresh strawberries. The meal was completed with a fork, knife, napkin and the newspaper.


He kept the gun locked in a lock box which was then locked in the desk drawer. It was safe there - with his office always locked - so he did not have to worry about David finding it. He turned the key and pulled out the box, another turn of the key revealed the nice shiny pistol sitting snugly in the case. Shaking fingers lifted it out and held it silently. Ha. A business trip. That was a lie. The divorce papers were sitting right there, right in front of him over the financial charts and graphs he usually studied every night. It was a lie they had told their children in order to keep things as normal as possible until they could no longer hide it - hide the fact that they were no longer in love and that they could no longer stand to live under the same roof. It wasnt the kids' fault. God, no. It was his. His own damn fault. Sure, they had everything they needed - a nice house with a nice car in a nice neighborhood with nice schools and even nicer neighbors - but she had wanted his love, not his money, and his career consumed all of his free time.

It was over now. He had thought about signing the papers. And he had thought about fighting for custody of the children. But there was an easier way out. A divorce would be long, drawn out and ugly. They'd be in court for months, there'd be issues over money and he didnt want his children to be involved in it. If he ended things quickly, it would be easier for everyone. No one would have to worry about where the kids lived or who got what car or how bad of a husband he was. And he would be able to end the pain. Slowly he lifted the gun to his temple and placed his finger on the trigger.


David precariously balanced the tray on one hand while he tried the door knob. It was unlocked which was strange but he didnt really notice for the excitement was building. Maybe this breakfast would cheer up his father enough to get him to come out of the office to play a game or watch a movie. Maybe it'd make him stop thinking about what his wife was doing right at the moment. Maybe it'd make him stop thinking about work. He pushed the door open with his foot and stepped into the room, smiling brightly.

When the gun went off, his father's blood splattered across the walls, over the desk, onto the floor, and onto David. The body slumped forward, the pistol gently slipping from the limp hand's grasp just to meet with the growing pool of blood spreading from the head that no longer was alive. The tray slipped from his hands and crashed to the ground, the glass of his father's favorite mug shattering into a million pieces.

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