Nightmares. I guess they never leave you. Never, No matter what happens, no matter what you try, they are always there. You can't run, you can't hide. They'll find you in the end. And always in the night. It doesn't care how warm and cosy your bed is, how many teddies a child may have; when that space black shade consumes the night and frightens away the white clouds; you know when nightmares have made their home in town. Infesting children's beds, invading their minds and playing about with them as if a game.
I always used to think that there was a man called Nightmare. I used to picture him, in my mind, walking down the street in a midnight black cloak; no expression dare to be painted on his face. His lips would sickly curl as he would be able to look into each and every one of the child’s minds and laugh at the horrors galore he has provided. All these happy children, with their perfect lives he might think; they all need a scare sometime. His laugh would be the screams of the children and his glinting white teeth; each one would trap happy memories from children. Never to return to their small minds. But a thought never crossed my mind while sobbing in bed as a child. Would Nightmare come for unhappy children too? Well, apparently he does, and his favourite; homeless children.
No pity. That’s all he’s got; and all he needs. And as I sit here alone in the cold, my teeth doing a ghastly dance, a wild smile that never keeps still. My eyes belong an animal; wild and free yet suffering and without care. And as a tiny white spark falls daintily onto my nose, its friends follow as if a dance from the heavens. The crystallized surface melts ever so slowly as I lie out here under an old door step to a block of burned out flats. I sigh thinking of the many lives that had once lived here, a place now of no peace, no hope, no love. I guess that’s where I belong as I struggle and shudder as night after night, Nightmare comes to haunt me.
I remember the saying at school, when everything was OK. ‘No rest for the wicked’ one of the teachers said and only now do recall that memory in vain. No rest for the wicked, does that make me wicked? Am I the villain in my story? It looks like it because I have no rested at all these past few days, well at least I don’t think so. Each night I curl up, praying to the heavens that tonight Nightmare doesn’t hunt me down. Just one night, I plead and Nightmare still finds me. And as I lie on my bed made of paving stones that the thought that someone might have died here, haunts me. And yet I try my hardest to ignore the thought and close my eyes. I try to sleep; just try.
But Nightmare will still have his joy, his sick laughs. I wake and open my mouth. But not a scream is to be heard, not a whimper, alas nothing. There is no energy left, I am too weak. Too weak to cry. Too weak to live I sometimes think. The thought of sickens me and I wretch a horrid grey dust that escapes my mouth like dying souls and nothing more. I try and try again. But Nightmare will find me, just as he always finds you.