Dream Monsters

Published online at the now defunct: http://www.crazedfanboy.com/fiction/flash/flashfantastic_10.html


An entry from the personal journal of Miles Abraham:

January 18, 1903

         Those monsters in my head woke me up again, little demons scratching their self-sharpening claws on my brain with furious strokes.  Even as I steadied my screaming spine against the wall, pillow propped beneath, their undying images flooded my imagination with a vengeance.  Hellish ghouls they are, with vile steel-like incisors sprouting from mouths of eternal blackness and flesh boiling and bubbling to the touch.
         One such fiend whom I have grown quite accustomed to these past years(deep, dreary nights), I have given the name Malady, or rather it has chosen to be called such.  Our relationship exists on the inside alone, through which I listen as it speaks, and respond accordingly.  It has no apparent physical form- the claws and scales I describe are my own derivations from its voice.  A voice evil, leering and profane.
         Malady first came to me as I lay awake one summer night two years ago.  The stifling heat had caused me to remove my pajamas, and I rested atop my sheets in gathering pools of sweat.  Suddenly, I felt a heavy weight descend upon my chest and an invisible band circle my throat.  My immediate response was to cry out and lean forward upon my mattress, but my cry was constricted by the band, and my shoulders could not rise against the impeding pressure.  Quickly, I began to choke, my lungs compressed and my oxygen depleted.  Then, even amidst my struggle, I heard the voice that haunts me to this very day.
         “Breathe,” it whispered, and the sound fell upon my ears as shards of glass- those ragged splinters which slice and cut as they shatter.  Again, as I fought, with piercing acridity, “Breathe.”  And with a final squeeze, the band loosened slightly around my neck and chest, and I began to breathe.  Large gulps of air I brought into my starving lungs; my naked skin quivered in relief, and the voice spoke again.  “My name-” I knew its name, and I saw no need to utter it aloud.  Malady.  Where this knowledge originated I had not the faintest clue.  The name simply appeared on the tip of both mind and tongue.
         “Impressive, young Miles,” in that same leering tone, each s a half-second longer than its preceding syllable.  “Do you know who I really am?”
         I confessed inwardly that I did not- perhaps I was lying there struck by delusions from the heat or visions of my forthcoming sleep.  Either would explain my peculiar state of being.
         “No, Miles, no delusion.” And with those words, the glistening sweat began to disappear from my skin as if my body were trying to replenish its wasted fluid.  I gazed at my arms and chest and watched the droplets be sucked inward into my pores.  Within a few seconds, my entire body was dry; even the hidden gullies between toes and fingers were free of all moisture.  I asked who it really was.
         The response came without delay.  “I am a guide.  Your guide.”
         A guide?  I did not understand his answer.  "So where have you been for twenty years?  My guide to what?"
         “To life, Miles.” That awful voice never hesitated, never faltered.  Although today I can bear the sound, it still cuts into my soul as sharply as it did that night. 
         "I have no need for a guide."  (I immediately regretted those words, as the weight fell once more upon my upper body.)
         “No need?” Malady hissed, and pushed down with tremendous power.
         At that very moment, my mind went blank- utterly and completely void, empty, and useless.  I felt overwhelmed if indeed I felt anything at all.  And within that selfsame minute, a torrent of colors came flashing across my blankness, leaving me perplexed and confused by the contiguous change.  The colors spoke, and I became
(Malady)
the man wielding the dagger with whorish blood dripping from its pointed tip, the woman stretching her scarf tightly around her child’s neck, the immoral living each day as a walking corpse.  The horrors came, unrelenting, and I lay as one frozen in ice, unable to flee each incriminating scene.  I was evil.
         I did not pray that next morning; I could not.  The sweat had returned to my skin- my personal sweat of fear- and any thought of the Almighty sent cold shivers along my arms to the very tips of my fingers.  Dirty.  I felt unclean and rose to draw my bath- the first of many to follow.
         Over the ensuing nights and months, Malady came no more alone but with scores of fellow antagonists, each vying for their chance to besiege my troubled spirit.  I could not resist even the weakest among them, for with my mortal flesh I was simply bait, a tempting treat.
         Yet, I am fond of my visitors, whose world is much alike my own.  Their corrosive tales of corruption and reprehensible acts no longer make me shudder in fright or grasp my sheets with sweaty palms, for I look into the mirror and see my own teeth glisten white and pointy, and my own flesh seethe over with pus.
         And these are my dreams.
         These are my monsters.