12 May 2012
I don't want to go to sleep. I would rather succumb to insomnia than dare close my eyes. The dreams will start, and I don't want them to.
I lay in my squeaky old bed in the attic, tugging at the old, tattered rag that covers me from chin the knees. Something she used to wear around her wiry shoulders before the sickness.
Before the sickness, the dreams were happy and joyful. Something I could look forward to during the night. Like watching a movie in my head.
She's gone now. She's gone now, and I left that lovely place for the one with endless, monotone halls with blood smears and blood puddles. The one with screams and death and Terrible Things that you can't see, but you can't hear.
People say they've seen the other side of light. They say they've been in the place before, seen those things. It's not true. They haven't. But I have.
The darkness is the worst. The black that pulls at the edges of your vision, that pulls on your ankles as you walk.
There's no way to prevent what's coming. The dark is unavoidable, just as it is when the sun sinks behind those barred windows.
I don't want to return to that now familiar place, but I'm already there. It's coming and there's nothing anybody can do about it.
So I sink down in my pillow and close my eyelids over my iridescent, purple eyes. Because the sun has gone away and it's never coming back to play.
Sixth Sense • Opuss № I