From Bengolong's contest, Describe your nightmare232Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMx4sLgujKK
tw: gore, violence, trauma232Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ658EcgLneg
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I dreamed of this when I was thirteen.
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I spawned at a house that I didn't recognize. There were about fifteen of us in the living room, but I didn't know who they were. A man holding a rifle told us we were going to play hide and seek. He would count to ten, and if he found anyone, he'd shoot them. Some people were unfazed, while others, like me, were terrified.
He didn't count to ten. He counted to five.
I pulled a girl who looked about four years old with me in someone's bedroom. I told her to hide under the covers. We shared the same white blanket, trembling. It was so noticeable that someone was hiding under there, but it was too late to move.
The man holding the rifle came into the bedroom. He shot the little girl first, and her dark blood splattered into my eyes, burning them. Then he shot me. Exactly four times, and I felt blood trickling everywhere down my body. And what haunts me is that I felt it in real life. I didn't feel much pain, but it was more of a sharp, electric shock in my back.
I pretended I was dead. He left the room. I had hoped the girl was pretending too, but she really was dead. And I wish I hadn't looked at her. Her head was missing completely. One of her dislodged eyeballs peeked at me from the bed.
Since we were in a room, there were windows. I slowly opened the window, trying not to make a sound. But the window creaked. I heard footsteps coming back. There was a black mosquito net which prevented me from jumping out. I quickly grabbed scissors to cut the net before I slipped out onto the roof.
The shooter couldn't get to me fast enough. Still, I didn't look back.
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This is the second part of my dream.
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I ran out of the neighborhood, the blood still pouring from my back. I bolted to my mother's home. Surprisingly, I didn't get lost. I arrived at her doorstep, knocking as hard as I could.
My seven-year-old brother opened it. He didn't seem to notice that I'd lost a huge amount of blood, or that I was staining the carpet and everywhere I went. He acted like this was a normal day, but he didn't answer me when I asked where our mother was.
He showed me a wild dog he caught and kept in a cage. He said he had kept it for four days. The dog growled and shook the metal cage, startling me. But I just nodded at him and went upstairs.
I should've been dead hours ago. But I forgot I was still bleeding.
There was a shriveling scream that came from downstairs. I will never forget that scream, ever. My brother's voice echoed in my ears and I scrambled downstairs. My eyes darted to the cage. It was opened. Then I looked at my brother, who was being attacked viciously by the dog. The dog punctured his neck, his arms, his torso. He wouldn't stop screaming for help, for me. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. All I could do was stay there, watching my brother being mauled by a wild dog.
I tried to scare him away. He growled at my face, which sent me running out of the house into the garage.
In this dream, I wasn't a hero. I killed a four-year-old girl. I killed my own brother. And I woke up just then, choking on my tears.
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