Just Another Nightmare

I bolted upright, startled awake by another nightmare. I gasped for breath, blinking in my surroundings, reminding myself of where I really was. Biting my tongue to keep from screaming, I tugged my knees up to my chest. The images played over and over in my head, no matter how hard I wished them away. Over the summer, the nightmares have become slightly less frequent, but haven't disappeared completely, and I've kind of accepted that they never will.

This one was a lot like all the others. I was stuck in the dungeon, that tiny, square, cement room that was my prison for weeks. I knew every detail of it by now: each tiny crack in the walls, the frigid temperature of the unforgiving floor beneath me, the single dim light bulb that rested in the center of the ceiling, and, most importantly, the metal slab of a door that had no handle, keeping me trapped. 

Like in every other nightmare, it felt as if I had never left. Like I'd been in this hellhole for ages, waiting to be rescued. But no one ever came for me.

This time, when he came in, I didn't look at him. I didn't have the will to. Everything in me was tired. Dead. Used to be that my heartbeat picked up speed whenever I heard noises by the door. My hands would get clammy and I would struggle to breathe. Now, it hardly affected me. It was inevitable. I knew I couldn't control it. I couldn't control anything. All I've done for the past, God knows how long, is sit against this cement wall on this uncomfortable cement floor and wait. And be beaten. Hit and kicked and...touched, over and over and over again. Then watch him leave and try to keep breathing until he returns. 

The masked man paced the room. I tried not to feel every bruise on my body. I tried not to feel my shattered ankle scream every time I fidgeted. I tried not to anticipate the bruises that were to come. Briefly, I spotted the knife hooked in his belt. I prayed for a quick visit this time. I hoped it would be a chat, slice, and leave. He'd done that once before. Or twice, I can't quite remember. 

I was almost right. I looked up just as he expertly whipped out the knife and, in one swift movement, stepped forward and slashed my arm. I stifled a scream. He chuckled and slashed the skin over my collarbone. I screamed through my teeth as the blood began to flow down my chest, soaking my shirt. 

"Show me your pain!" he shouted, towering over me.

"Show me your face!" I yelled back, lifting my face to look at him again, showing no fear. 

He froze momentarily. Then, he resumed twirling his knife in his fingers. He studied the swirling blade, then looked down at me. He stopped the knife, gripping it like he was going to stab me with it. My breath caught in my throat. He leaned down slowly, until his face was inches from mine and his foul breath floated across my face. I tried to turn away but his rough hand on my jaw held me there. As he breathed heavily on me, my lungs refused to operate. It's not real, I kept telling myself. It's not real. It's not real. And I pretended it wasn't real. Even though it felt more real than reality.

His eyes - those dark, evil, horrid eyes that haunted every moment of my existance - bored into mine. He peered into my soul and attempted to wither it away. I fought against him with every fiber of my being. My body was still, but my insides were on fire, twisting, turning and fighting.

Suddenly, a pain hit my thigh and spread through me. I assumed it was the knife; until I was sent into spasms. My entire body, inside and out, convulsed uncontrolably. It writhed and burned, throbbing with every movement. I was held up only by his hand on my jaw. All I could see, all I knew in that last moment, were his black, soulless eyes.

Then I was gasping for breath, my frail limbs all wrapped up together, taking up barely any space at all. I focused on my walls, the bed underneath me, my nightstand, my pillow, anything that would remind me that I am here, home. And I was thankful. Thankful that I am here, not there, and that it was just another nightmare. But as I sat, all tangled up in myself, fear reminded me of its presence in my heart. I was afraid to blink, because every time my eyes close, I see his.

Lonely Boxcar

I rocked side to side, my arms outstretched to catch the air. One foot at a time, I balanced on the metal rail of the track. On tiptoes, I began running down my tightrope, laughing at my friend who straggled behind. My loose overalls flapped as I ran, the legs rolled up so I don't trip. Jessie had her shoes on 'cause she's always afraid of getting bitten. I tell her that's what slows her down all the time. She fits her clothes better than me. She isn't so slight that a tornado wind could blow her into the sky. That's what Mama always tells me, that when there's a storm I gotta stay in so I don't get whipped up. It ain't my fault I'm the size of a sapling, I just am.

"Lizzie, slow down!" she calls from behind me. I almost pretend I don't hear her, but I stop when I see something up ahead. A big red boxcar sits alone on the tracks. I shove my hands in my pockets and look hard at it. The stale heat presses down on me and the sun beats on my back, but I ignore it.

"What's that?" she asked, finally beside me.

"Old train car, I s'pose." I shrugged, still looking at it, wondering how it got left here. "Wonder what's inside."

I walked away without looking back, knowing that Jessie wasn't following me yet. I've always been the more adventurous one between the two of us. Jessie thinks that curiosity is dangerous, that it gets  you in trouble. She says that all the time. But when I start off on adventures, she always follows. I think she really is a curious person, she just doesn't wanna tell nobody.

I turned my eyes toward Jessie, still in the spot where I left her, but a moment later, her feet start moving toward me. I smile as I swing myself into the abandoned train car, wondering what we'll find this time.

Art Inspired Poetry

 Alice
She sits and waits
Like they tell her to
She waits for answers but they give her none
Around her, the people cry
Sobbing into shoulders, wiping noses with handkerchiefs
And still she sits, silent
Wishing for answers
She is numb, forgetting to breathe if it weren't second nature
Forgetting to see as her eyes blur the world around her
Forgetting to notice that her hands are cold
And her arms are spotted with goosebumps
She looks up, blinking the world into focus
As they carry in the casket

Now, she has her answers
But she doesn't want them

The Cellist

He plays the cello

He closes his eyes to the sound of his strings

The bow moving rhythmically, loosely

Following the music, then forgetting all about it

Flying free with no constraints

His hand begins to move itself

Between strings, between notes

The bar fills with music

People silence to listen in

And watch in wonder as

The cello plays him

Freedom

Thick strokes of brown, every shade of brown, faded together like the sands of a beach, or a desert. I can see ditches and dunes in the distance, though whether they are real or a figment of my imagination I do not yet know. Off in the distance, the brown switches to blue, all shades of blue, though I cannot tell whether it is ocean or sky. White highlights appear as clouds that turn the blue space into a sky, but a green hue in the mass reminds me of sea foam and seaweed, the things of the sea. I decide not to choose which one it is, but instead to let it be both.

Whatever it is, sea or sky, it seems lonely. There are no trees, no birds, no creatures to accompany the vast expanse of color. It lies in wait, waiting for something, someone to come along and fill it with feeling, to give life to its empty space. Yet somehow, it already possesses life. The sands shift in an imaginary wind, the sea buffing in the breeze and the sky smiling down at it all. It is not void. It does feel. It is free. Free from stress and decisions. Free from constraint. Utterly, absolutely free.

Someone calls my name. Reluctantly, my eyes flutter open. I have fallen back into reality. The brown shades of a whispering sand and the deep blues of an ocean sky disintegrate and in their place rest women in tattered dresses. The shackles around my wrist remind me that in this place, I am anything but free. Dirtied faces of my young companions hold varied expressions; disdain, sorrow, fear. My expression remains blank as my eyes are lifted to the iron bars, where on the other side stands a guard in wait. This time, his gaze falls upon me. It is my turn.

Slowly, I stand, all eyes in the cell watching as the iron gate opens only for me, then locks my companions back inside. I stumble after the guard, legs sore from lack of use, my arms trapped uselessly in front of me. My eyes do not move from the floor until I feel a tug on my neck as he ties me to the gallows. Only then to I look up to see the solitary window before me, the landscape. It is their attempt to make us happier as we are unfairly murdered. Instead of keeping my eyes on the window, I squeeze them shut, seeing instead the beautiful brown sand and wide blue ocean sky. I see my freedom, and I reach for it as the veil is tugged over my eyes.

Six Word Memoirs

Acts of random kindness
change lives.

There's plenty of sense
in nonsense.