Nightmare log #3: Power

Welcome to the third instalment of my nightmare log (not for the faint of heart):

An old, time-worn, plushy comfortable armchair beneath me. Gauzy white, insubstantial curtains flapping in the wind, violently dancing like delicate faeries on the breeze. There’s a certain quality to their movements and I can tell they’re out for blood. 

The wind is howling round the corners of my old rickety house, like a thousand hounds that have caught the scent of prey. It’s sniffing around me as I sit in my armchair and stare out the window. I’m frozen in time, locked in the armchair as I watch a perfect storm unfold in the dark sky outside. 

Shadows dance in the clouds, forming evil, distorted faces as the first drops of rain land on my face like burning silver needles. Pinpricks, testing my endurance and promising worse. 

The howling gets louder and the wind is baying for blood. The curtains fly off and wrap around my neck, roughly squeezing like a drunk lover, but I’m still frozen, staring at the bruised purple sky.

“Is this hell?” I want to ask, but can’t get my mouth to work. The imagery is brutal in that subtle way that tells me it’s a dream, but I can’t move. I can’t get out and I’m frozen.

I feel frozen too. It’s cold and the rain is lashing at my body in full force now, driven by the unrelenting wind. The curtains are wet like a slimy, coiling snake around my neck, but I know they won’t squeeze too much. You can’t torment someone after they stop breathing.

The storm is beautiful in that savage, violent way of nature that shows us how very insignificant we are, how very fragile. I’d never seen anything like it and I could weep for its beauty if my eyes were still mine. There’s pleasure in this torture too.

“What did I do?” 

There is no answer. I’m alone. We’re always so alone.

The howling rises up to a crescendo and the wind suddenly dies down. The rain turns tame and the curtains hang limp around my neck like an old, ratty scarf. 

My left eye blinks and I’m so surprised by this sudden physical movement that my heart almost stops. I’m in the eye of the storm and the storm is in my eye. 

It’s raging, worse than before and I can feel it in my left eye. My eye twitches as the wind silently tears apart my cornea and the last thing I see is a pure white flash of lightning.

The electricity rushes through my veins from my eye to my toes and it hurts so much. Pinpricks and needles and burning. A metallic taste in my mouth and my body explodes into a thousand tormented fragments.

The sky is alive with power, a mix of swirling dark purple shadows and blue-grey clouds. Wispy slivers of me float through the window and dance in the wind, mixing with the rain. I am the storm. I am powerful, I am eternal and I am free. 

It’s beautiful. I wake up and I am crying in my bed, powerless once again.

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