My Dreams Are Nightmares.

Run.

I can hear myself screaming it at you, I can feel the tears rushing down my cheeks. I can see my hand reaching out for you, trying to grab you, to pull you to me one last time. I am trying, I can feel it. Every sinew, every fibre of my being is reaching out to you. I am pushing myself beyond my limits to save you.

Too late, I am always too late.

I am always too late to show you the thing that'll kill you. I am always never there, never fast enough, never able to save you. I have missed you hundreds of times before and I will miss you hundreds of times again.

My hand closes around your shirt.

Soft, warm fabric gives way under my fingers. I hear it rip, feel your body falling to the ground. Your shirt comes away in my hand, tattered fabric. I can see its soaked black with your blood. Shiny black tatters. It coats my fingers in red.

I drop to my knees.

The ground is solid, I will bruise. Arbitrary thoughts cloud my mind as I take in the pain in my body. It starts in my knees, shoot up my though my spine and reading my head. My heart feels pierced, as though someone had been abusing a voodoo doll with my name embroidered on its soul.

I look at your body.

Your soft face, so kind to me over the years that I have known you now lies ruined in the dirt. Your lips are parted just so, a coldness to them I have never seen before rips my heart. Your limbs are spread messily, you dropped on the spot. Your hands are undoubtedly masculine, achingly so. Your wound, the fatal wound, is a gunshot through the chest. Your heart's chambers stilled by a bullet from a gun's chamber. I peer at it, seeing the mess of blood and bone and ruined flesh that covers the left side of your torso.

Your last breath bubbles to your lips.

I hear it escape, your life going with it. You're empty now, another flesh suit. You're gone; your face is not yours any more. Your rasping, bubbling breaths are over and you are no more.

I stand up and turn to the gunman.

Her hood falls down, her eyes are the same height at mine. Her hair the same length. Her lips are mashed in a hard line, her hands gripping the gun in hand tight. Her body is relaxed but weary. I shake my head at her, I should've known.

I'm looking at myself.

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I actually have this dream most nights so I'm posting it under dream, but it could also be under horror or suspense or something...