Photo credit to emptyyeyes at deviantart
This is a bad dream. Or it might be a memory.
I wake up and there’s a small child. Genderless. Angelic. A small child kneeling on my bed. I can see it pinning my legs down, but can’t feel the weight. He’s looking out the window, his arms resting on the window sill next to my bed.
In profile, a sliver of early dawn cuts the sharp lines of its face into my eyes. Its one visible eye, strangely colourless, is wide with shock. I can see deathly blue veins running from the corner of its mouth and eye. Almost standing up in pale skin stretched taught over an expression of horror that twists into something sinister in my gut.
Flashes, five of them, bright and piercing and ominous, tear across the horizon. An eternity apart at first, the ghostly creature at my feet and I watch as the light spreads across the curve of the landscape. Like five suns rising in unison. As their lights touch they change direction, swarming towards us and gathering speed.
The child is slowly turning its head. Inevitably slowly. Glacially slowly. Something deep within me, a primal animal, is screaming in terror. But I’m paralysed.
The inevitability of dreams is part of the horror. The terror of running like the wind and going no where. The fear of swinging a fist with all your might and it seeming to move through tar.
Maybe what we’re all afraid of, deep down, is not being in control. That we have no effect. No matter how hard we try, nothing or no one really notices. The result is predetermined.
We die. Everyone does.
The child turns its head and perfect ivory skin turns into something else. The other side of its face is burned away. Showing scorched musculature and spurs of carbonised bone. A dried out eye swivels randomly in its socket.