For years, I've had this dream - a fantasy really. It's not every
night. Just every once in a while, I remember that it's there.
There is a person sitting in an
empty room on a wooden chair. I think it's a man but they have a burlap bag
over their head. Above them is a single light bulb that swings when I open the
door. I step inside and I'm holding a tool. It changes but it's always a tool I
can use to hurt someone. Most recently, it was a hammer. It's so quiet inside
the room that the only sound is my footsteps and even those don't sound quite
right. They sound distant; foggy. But with each step forward, the sound becomes
louder and the man in the chair can definitely hear me because they start to
struggle against duct tape that binds their hands together and to the chair. I
imagine they're gagged under the hood as well because as I get closer, they try
to scream but it's nothing but mumbles and wordless grunts. Somehow I know
they're not yet pleading for their life...but I want them to. That's why I have
the tool in my hand. The hammer is there so I can use it to hurt someone.
That’s not an unfamiliar feeling, wanting to make someone scream.
But this time I’m scared, nervous, like my first time but somehow worse. My hands
are shaking. Now I’m standing right behind them and they’re trying so hard to
break free but they can’t. I know no matter what they do, they will never
escape. I place a hand on their shoulder and I can feel all the muscles down
their back contract, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. I never hear them
exhale. I squeeze their shoulder because…because I want to comfort them. I don’t
want to do this. That’s why I’m scared. But I have to. I have go through with
whatever it is I’m about to do. Because…
I don’t know why. I just know that I have to do this. As much as
it hurts. My hands shake even more as a raise the hammer above my head. When I
bring it down, I don’t hit their skull. Instead, I shatter the very shoulder I
once held in comfort. They scream out in pain and I watch in almost fascination
at the misshapen limb under their shirt. No blood soaks through but I know
underneath, their skin is purple and black and green. Their screams become sobs
but I continue with my work. On their left side, I swing the hammer back like a
golf club and hit their elbow with as much force as I can muster. This time
there is blood as their arm falls limp and the cries only grow louder. Through
their shirt, a piece of their elbow bone as cracked and pierced the skin. The
urge to release them and run away from this place takes hold of my heart and I
can’t breathe. Tears are welling up in my eyes but I blink them back and make
quick work of their fingers bound together in one convenient location. The
digits fall limp but the rest of the body that isn’t already destroyed tenses
in agony. Agony. That is the word I would use. And the pain they feel ripples
through my own body. Very quickly, I place a kiss on their shattered knuckle.
They flinch from my touch and I don’t blame them, but I feel a rejection and
the sense that they don’t understand why I’m doing this. I’m not sure I do
myself but I’m so sure in my need to go through with this torture that I
continue.
I walk around to face them and before they can react to my new
location, I turn the hammer over and jam the end into the top of their thigh,
careful to miss their major artery. I know exactly where it is, too. If I
wanted to kill them, to put them out of their misery, I know exactly where to hurt
them. But instead, I let them cry out and sink into the pain, conscious of all
their other injuries. There is no reprieve when I pull my weapon out of their
body and prepare for the next blow. This time, I aim for their ankles, pushing
in the bones until they have no hope of standing upright. Possibly ever again.
Assuming they survive. Somehow, I know they will. Despite my actions, I am
ensuring their life. What does that mean?
As I reach their feet, I grow more frantic. This is the last of it,
I know. I can’t stop the tears that fall as I strike the first blow. The next
swings are less controlled but just as brutal. One. Two. Three. Four. My arms
are tired but I continue on, destroying both feet without any hope of escape –
for either of us.
Right before I wake up, I lean forward and whisper in their ear
through loud, open sobs.
“Now they won’t know the truth.”
Yesterday, when I opened my eyes, I was holding James’ shoulder so
hard that I pierced the skin in three places. He was trying to wake me up but nothing
happened until I had finished my work. I was crying a little and hyperventilating.
I didn’t bother to hide the fact that I’d had the same monstrous nightmare
again. He’s known about them for years but this was the worst one yet. It still
sits in the back of my mind. I’m still pouring over what exactly it means. Who
was that person I tortured to the brink of death? Why was this saving them?
I know you’re thinking that it’s James in my dream but I started having
it before I met him. Who knows, maybe it changes, maybe it’s a generic
representation of something I’m meant to understand. All I know is that I’ve
had the dream twice this month and that’s the most it’s ever come around. I
remember it when I’m at work and I go to the bathroom to cry. Readers, this
dream is one of the few things in the universe that truly scares me. Perhaps because
I don’t understand it. What terrifies me is that one day I will get up the
courage to take off the hood and I’ll still have to hurt them. Will they know
then?
I don’t know that I believe in prophetic dreams, but I know that
this dream never brings anything good into my life. And if it’s getting worse…
I can’t bear to think.
What am I going to do?
As always, dear readers,
Stay Safe
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