Have you ever heard that, when you dream, your body is paralyzed for the three seconds it takes you to dream? That’s not because you are dreaming. That’s a defense mechanism.
No one knows what really happened to me on the night of November 18th, 2013. But I do, and, according to my mother, that’s all that matters. I mean, the doctors don’t believe me. My family doesn’t believe me, except for Mom. But she’s like me. She sees them and hears them. But I feel them.
I don’t understand why no one believes me when I am a miracle, my mom says. Sometimes, though, I don’t even believe myself. Sometimes I don’t remember things for days at a time. Sometimes everything hits me at once, and I can’t control it. I have scars from myself trying to stop the voices.
On November 18th, I woke halfway through a nightmare. I was screaming. As I fell back into sleep, my mind lifted from my body and I watched my sleeping self twist and turn. Then, I suddenly went still. I was curled into a fetus position, and I could see my dream playing out in three seconds flat. As the last remnants of my dream played in my head, little claws ripped at my body, but then, a raspy voice spoke, “She is dead,” And the clawed ghouls climbed away and under my bed.
So I tell you, as I sit here in this Psychiatric Ward for the criminally insane, I didn’t kill my family. The ghouls did. I managed to defend myself from them by pretending I was dead. But maybe I already died and that body was already gone. Maybe I am crazy, like the doctors said. Maybe this blood on my hands isn’t my own.
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