《Disordered Dreaming》


 Deliver Us

    Seven years old


    The Prince of Egypt is the best movie ever.


    I¡¯m watching the movie for the one thousandth time. I can¡¯t help it. It¡¯s so wonderful. I love stories about people visiting different places, finding their true calling. I want to do that so badly.


    I want to run away. Never come back to this place.


    Mommy got the video from Blockbuster. I like going to Blockbuster, but I can never get any video games from there. I don¡¯t like it. Mommy says they cost too much.


    Everything costs too much.


    I watch the wrath of God take all the firstborn sons of Egypt. I already know what happens, but it still excites me anyway. The popcorn in my tiny bowl gets on the carpet and I¡¯m too busy to notice, trying to focus on the bright entrancing colors.


    My Mommy walks in, the door already open and tells me I have to go to bed.


    ¡°I want to finish it,¡± I whine. ¡°This is my favorite.¡±


    My Mommy allows it, because it is a Christian film, and then I can go to bed.


    I pick up the pieces of popcorn from the floor because Mommy told me to, and I try to watch the movie as I do so. My shirt that is too small for me bunches up and I hate it.


    I don¡¯t like being fat.


    ¡°You and your people have my permission to go. Leave me!¡±


    Moses can finally leave his father, his brother, like I wish I could leave mine.


    I wipe my dirty hands on my already dirty blue and ill fitting shirt and continue to stare up at the small TV on my dresser. It¡¯s black and blocky, but has plenty of room for the built in VHS player.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    My second favorite scene continues, as the Hebrews make their traverse through the sea. Moses uses his staff, and he guides them, as their subjugators follow them, but I know the ending.


    That they will get to the promised land.


    Mommy says this movie is important. To never listen to the slavers and colonizers.


    I already know not to, but I don¡¯t care about that. I like the songs, and the dancing, and Moses. The prince of Egypt who gave it all up for his true family.


    I want to find mine.


    The movie ends and I try to be sly. I want to watch my favorite part again, the beginning. Images of people being flayed and whipped on the screen flitter by, and I smile.


    Deliver Us begins and I love it so much.


    I too want to be a secret prince, with an older sibling that watches over me, as Moses'' older sister watched him down the Nile. I too want to be delivered from where I am to a new and better home.


    My Mommy hears the song playing, and she knows that I started it again.


    She turns off the film and I get ready for bed, pouting and upset.


    I want more.


    I feel a little excited as I see the clock says 9:29, and it¡¯s been a long time since I¡¯ve stayed up that late. I stare defiantly at the giant blue oil bin that had been cleaned out and repurposed to hold items to be sent abroad.


    Why do they always put it in my room? Why can¡¯t they put it somewhere else?


    I know I have school in the morning, so I get dressed in my blue pajama dress and turn off the lights.


    The door is left open a little to let light stream in, so nothing can hurt me, of course. Grandma told me when she came to visit two years ago that there is nothing to be afraid of in the Dark.


    Because there is nothing!


    She said it like it was the most simple thing in the world. So obvious. But that is a lie.


    There are Many Horrible Things In The Dark.


    They come for me when I sleep, and just like every other night I know they will Return.


    I don¡¯t want to sleep by myself. I want to sleep with my Mommy.


    ¡°You¡¯re too old to get nightmares like this,¡± she told me.


    I still get them every day.


    I like sleeping better than the Horror Of Daylight so I choose the option of sleep.

 Him

    I know this is another nightmare before it begins. They are my mean shadow, and it follows me in my dreams and during the Horror of Daylight.


    I am in front of a house I cannot recognize.I¡¯m standing in the dark, everything in full HD, the colors all filled in.


    Many years later I will realize it is my Father¡¯s House.


    This is so weird. They are always blue. The bad dreams should be blue.


    I am more terrified than usual, as the light from the front of the house shines on top of my short body. In my nightmare I am not fat, but I am small again.


    A consolation for the horror to come.


    Something is here.


    I grip the door of the 4 Wheel Drive MiniVan, it¡¯s green shimmer entrancing. It¡¯s cold and metallic feeling is stuck to my fingertips like ice, even though it''s summer outside. My sweaty fingertips glide against its metal exterior, hoping that it will be my valiant knight against the monster that I could feel.


    I can feel it in my soul. He is coming to get me. I don¡¯t know who He is, but I can feel him approaching. Before I see him I can feel him invading my bones, crawling in my skin. His children come out of my eyes, scratching my eyelids and pushing against my retina.


    I blink, and suddenly his children are gone. My skin is sweaty and pallid, my bones rickety and squeaking, the damage still there. All is quiet except for the sounds of the crickets, and I watch the flies buzz around the drive through lamp.


    Everything outside of the scope of the small patch of pavement that leads to the road is gone. There is no escape. I am trapped with this unseen enemy, the thought of him enough to scare me before I have even seen him. I whimper and hold onto the door, wishing I knew how to drive.


    Wishing I was an Adult.


    Silently the creature turns around the 4 Wheel Drive MiniVan. He is here to greet me. He is silent, but I know what he wants.


    Food.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    His eyes are round and bulging, made of so many compartments they look almost fuzzy. I say nothing as he inches closer towards me, his silent footsteps inching closer.


    Go away. Leave me alone.


    His hairy legs have strange spikes in them, and I am afraid to get hurt. His large translucent wings, the color of a foggy window during rain, twitch a little, in excitement for me.


    His Meal.


    I try to move behind the 4 Wheel Drive MiniVan, the space between the garage door and the car. I hope that he can¡¯t get me in there.


    I slip in between, but suddenly it becomes difficult to move to the other side of the van. I have become fat again, and I¡¯m wearing the blue and filthy shirt I hate so much.


    He approaches the back of the van, and now I can see close up more of his face. Two gaping holes where the nose should be, breath hot air on my body. A strange black substance comes down his nose, and I notice as it hits the gravel, holes are left in the ground.


    I tense up and prepare for the pain.


    The hair on His body shifts in excitement and His gaping maw slowly opens. Acid pours out of His mouth, sticky and thick, lining the bottom and top of the mouth, pouring onto the pavement.


    It slops and swirls onto the ground, the loud stings and smacks echoing in the silent void where only the front of the house exists, where it will always be night, which I can never escape.


    Out slithers what looks like a snake. I cry as it slowly pushes out of Him, the acid boring holes into the pavement. He wants to take his time with His Meal.


    He is a True Connoisseur.


    His tongue smacked against the garage door, against the back window of the van, grasping wildy, flailing around for me. The acid destroyed the back garage, door, it melted the van and flew into my skin.


    I could not feel it. I felt no pain. I knew I couldn¡¯t feel anything, because this was a dream. I knew it. Yet I couldn¡¯t make it stop. The helplessness from knowing something but never being able to stop it, was worse than seeing Him.


    I close my eyes, my one and only defense mechanism, and hot tears fall onto the back ridge of the van. They slide down slowly, and they don¡¯t make the cold metal warm up.


    I shudder as his tongue bites my body and I know that I am Dead.


    I thought he couldn¡¯t get me in here.


    But He could. He can find me anywhere.


    He was bigger than the 4 Wheel Drive MiniVan, and even though his head couldn¡¯t fit between the small gap of the garage door and the van, He would still have his way no matter what.


    I wake up before He can hurt me.


    I don¡¯t cry.


    I just sit in the dark.


    Staring at nothing.


    Mommy closed the door in my sleep.

 Best Years Of My Life

    Twelve Years Old


    I listen to my mother lecture me about why I¡¯m Wasting My Younger Years.


    ¡°You need to go outside more,¡± she chastises me in the foyer. I glare at her, unfeeling, unblinking, uncaring. She needed something to complain about, now that I avoid her on a daily basis.


    You never let me hang out with anyone. How can I go outside?


    I imagine a little monkey with cymbals playing, his little red hat, and cute suit with yellow shiny pins and tassels as she talks. I saw the funny image on TV months ago and knew he was perfect.


    I think of him whenever my mother tells me something that doesn¡¯t matter.


    ¡°Are you listening to me, Dead Name,¡± she shrills.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I mumble.


    ¡°What did I say then?¡±


    I say nothing and am trapped in a lie.


    She finds something else to complain about and when it¡¯s clear I¡¯m not listening she leaves to find something to do in the kitchen.


    I waste the rest of the Best Day Of My Life watching bad television.


    <hr>


    I lie in my bed, the door slightly open, as it always is.


    I am too old to be afraid of the dark, but the Horror Of Daylight is somehow relaxing during Night. I fidget in my bed, because it''s too small, or I am too big, or both.


    I listen to my mom on the phone, and she is quite loud. She¡¯s talking to her friend about something or other, and it¡¯s been a long time since they¡¯ve talked. I try to tune them out and roll over on my side.


    My trusty friend, Christian is there. His name used to be Christina, but now he is Christian, because we will always be the same.


    Always Best Friends.


    I was too embarrassed to sleep with Christina when I was younger, but now I don¡¯t care. I need all the help I can get to keep the Many Horrible Things In The Dark at bay.


    Christian tries his hardest, but it isn¡¯t enough.


    So the Many Horrible Things In The Dark visit me again that night.


    <hr>


    I am standing at the bottom of the stairwell at the entrance to my house. I hear the faint sounds of an infant at the top of the stairwell. This time I didn''t know it was a nightmare, so I foolishly went up the stairs, worried about the baby.


    The baby is not there.


    Instead I see a package of Hot Dogs.


    My Drug Of Choice.


    Before I have a chance to open the package and slide them down my throat, my brother opens the door. I¡¯m not really surprised, as he is always sleep walking, and I figure that I have to lead him back to his bed again.


    Strangely, he is awake in the middle of the night.


    ¡°Why do you eat so much,¡± he asks me.


    His voice is hollow and it rings in my ears, bangs against the walls, and the entire small townhouse shakes and heaves against the weight of his words.


    I say nothing to my brother, knowing again that I have been Caught In The Act.


    ¡°Stop it,¡± he whispers.


    His entire body shakes against the weight of his own voice. He is a small boy for his age, and he cannot handle his heavy words.


    They ruin him before my very eyes.


    His skin now has a dimpled texture and it becomes pale and pink. His clothes slough off his body like dead skin as he shrinks before me. His cute face disappears, and his head entirely in the blink of an eye.


    I tremble as I watch him die in front of me.


    All that is left in the pile of clothes is a small bump.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Warily I move the clothes aside, hoping that he just got smaller. That he was Perfectly Fine, and that I could put him back to bed.


    We could forget the entire event entirely.


    My entire body tenses up as I see an uncooked turkey inside the shirt.


    I picked it up, my brother¡¯s body now slimy and needing to be washed before cooking. I worry deeply if he is okay.


    What will I tell Mom?


    I sit at the top of the stairwell, wondering what to do with my brother, The Uncooked Bird, and then a sudden realization comes to me.


    No one can see me now. No one will know what I do.


    I drop my brother onto the carpet, no longer concerned about his well being.


    I need my Drug Of Choice.


    Greedily I open the hot dog package. It is my current favorite brand, the Oscar Meyer brand. The good stuff. I mumble the commercial song to myself as I open the package, the gelatinous slime slipping down my fingers.


    I pay it no mind.


    The hotdogs slide down my throat, uncooked, and I shiver in ecstasy as I Get High. My brother is silent, and he is still aware of what is going on as I Get High.


    I don¡¯t really chew my Drug Of Choice. I mush it up, but only a few times, enough so that I don¡¯t choke, but can still feel the Hurt as it slides down my throat.


    It shouldn¡¯t feel good anyway.


    My brother, The Uncooked Bird, cries.


    The slime comes down his small body. Even as a turkey he is still smaller than he should be. He never eats anything other than Cheetos, chocolate milk, and peanut butter sandwiches. His cries continue, silent, and the tears spill off his cold and wet body onto the already stained carpet.


    I pay him no mind as I Get High.


    The wet sounds of my Drug Of Choice feel nice in my ears and comforting. The texture of it is enthralling, and I continue, preferring it raw instead of cooked.


    I do not notice as my punishment occurs.


    I do notice that I have eaten it all.


    I want more.


    I don¡¯t like it when I can no longer Get High. What else could I do? Nothing else matters. I¡¯m angry that my Drug Of Choice is gone, and it was all my fault.


    Unlike the other times the shame doesn¡¯t set in, and I am too preoccupied with finding more of my Drug Of Choice than to notice that I am drowning until it is too late.


    Now that I am No Longer High, I notice the slime on the walls. It is translucent with a red tint. The same color as the slime that came out of my package of Oscar Meyer.


    How strange. Just ignore it. That doesn¡¯t matter right now.


    What mattered right now was finding the next best thing since I had used up my Drug Of Choice. I look at my brother, The Uncooked Bird, and know what I must do.


    I quote my favorite movie, The Prince of Egypt.


    ¡°....Sacrifices Must Be Made.¡±


    My heart beats faster as I look at him. He is not my favorite but he will have to do. I feel no remorse as I peer down at the Uncooked Bird.


    I never liked him anyway.


    I know that Everything Is Fine, Stop Asking Me If I¡¯m Okay, as I pick up the Uncooked Bird, No Longer My Brother. He is silent, knowing that I will consume his flesh, sacrifice him entirely before I ever give up my Drug Of Choice.


    I moan as I bite into him, his blood pouring down my mouth, and I tear off a large chunk, cold and uncooked. I don¡¯t care that it¡¯s not cooked. I don¡¯t care about the Uncooked Bird, No Longer My Brother.


    I want to Get High.


    And I Do.


    This is harder for me to chew than the others. Not because of the lack of morals in my soul for eating the Uncooked Bird, No Longer My Brother, but because I don¡¯t like turkey that much.


    The outside of it¡¯s flesh is like rubber, and I chew harder, more focused on Getting High, than the dangerous liquid seeping out of the walls. I spit out the blood, happy that the Uncooked Bird, No Longer My Brother, wasn¡¯t frozen, or else it would be impossible to Get High.


    It doesn¡¯t matter that it¡¯s uncooked. People always cook them too dry anyway.


    I am having difficulty eating as I have hit the rib cage, and now I stop, because I am full, and this isn¡¯t the good stuff. I drop the trash to the ground and groan at the carpet, upset that I had something new to clean in the morning.


    I look down the stairwell, ready to go to the kitchen and throw out the trash.


    I see the slime coming for me.


    It is rising quite fast now. I had ignored it for too long.


    I am not ready to die. There are so many things I want to do.


    Mother was right. I should go out more.


    I wipe the blood off my face, but it is futile, because there is blood on my hands. I panic in the hallway and wonder where I should go. The only exit out of the house is downstairs, with the slime, and I will not make it.


    The blood of Oh No, I Have Eaten My Brother, What Have I Done, is smeared against his door as I try to open it. It¡¯s locked. I try every door in the small hallway, but they are all locked.


    I can jump out the window, but I can¡¯t get through the doors.


    I wonder to myself why someone would design a hallway without windows.


    The slime is now at my feet, and I am salivating, seeing the remnants of my Drug Of Choice. The cold sludge coagulates around my ankles and I am confused yet excited.


    My Drug Of Choice is here to greet me.


    I stand still, waiting to be consumed by it. I cry tears of joy knowing that I can never ever Get This High ever again. The feeling is overwhelming, just the anticipation of it all is a High In Of Itself.


    It is now at my neck and the sudden thought comes to me if I will drown.


    It is too late.


    The opaque fluid fills the hallway and I struggle to breathe inside it.


    The corpse of Oh No, I Have Eaten My Brother, What Have I Done, floats on by, watching me suffocate. I try to swim to the top but the slime is too thick.


    Yet I want more.


    I want to Get High.


    I die.

 Crash

    Thirteen Years Old


    My Grandma has died.


    I was awoken at 6 AM to the news of her passing. My Aunt and Uncle had come to visit in America, and they were all sad that they got the news of her passing.


    She was hit by a car on the side of the road, and the driver was never found.


    My Aunt and Uncle left immediately for their home country, and I went upstairs, to my mothers room, and laid on the naked mattress on the floor. It was given to me as my Aunt and Uncle borrowed my room, and I was too lazy to put a sheet on it.


    I quickly passed out, as I had barely gotten any sleep from the night before.


    <hr>


    Everything is blue, and I panic.


    I know that it is now Time To Die.


    Me, and many children I don¡¯t recognize are on a bus. We drive up the winding road, towards the top of the Shenandoah Valley. I hate this road. It terrifies me. It winds, around and around in a circle,higher and higher, dizzying, like an amusement park ride.


    I hate amusement park rides.


    The bus starts to speed up, which is not unusual, but soon it starts to swerve, the closer it gets to the top. Sudden panic breaks out.


    All the unrecognizable children, their warped face and similar hair start screaming, and then I start screaming, because if everyone else is screaming why aren¡¯t I?


    Soon their faces all start to look the same, except for the difference of gender. They are all blue, in various tones, the boys with shorts ear length haircuts, the girls with hair down to their waists.


    I was never scared until they became scared.


    Next they started fighting.


    Punching each other, trying to rip each other to shreds, clawing at the face. The children had no problem killing their brethren. There could only be one, now that they all looked the same.


    No room for differences.


    No exceptions.


    I cry and clutch the top of the grey bus seat. I¡¯m sitting in the second to last seat on the right side, my usual spot whenever I ride the bus. I look out the back door, trying to find escape before they turn on me next.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    I decided taking my chances, rolling down the mountain was better being stuck in there.


    I grab the emergency exit, but it doesn¡¯t open. The handle won¡¯t even turn. I am stuck here, forever, with these horrid children, choking and spitting on each other, saying unintelligible noise.


    No real language comes out of their mouth, except for The Mumbles.


    I have heard The Mumbles before, a few times, but this time it was terrifying as they all did it at once, and I had no reprieve from the noise. The Mumbles would start, and then turn into screeching and screams.


    The children would not die.


    They would hit each other as hard as possible, cracking skulls against each other''s head, kicking in the face, pulling fingers and hair. I did the only thing I knew how to do in that moment, when I had wasted all other options.


    I asked for help from A Trusted Adult.


    I climbed over the grey plastic seats. They made a strange sound, the crinkling of plastic pushing up against my jumper.


    I realize, in that moment, that I am small again. I am wearing my yellow jumper, with a flower shirt, pink shoes, and my curls. I wore the outfit, the same one in the picture my father hangs in his house, the one where we went to Walmart together to get our photo taken.


    I remember the day, and how special I felt.


    I remember then, that someone had painted my photo, and sold it.


    My face now hangs in a strangers house, and now I no longer feel special.


    The small me cries as I am desperate to feel special again. I Want Attention, but the bus driver ignores me as I call for help, screaming that the children are coming to get me.


    They are not satisfied with maiming each other, next they want me. I¡¯m in the front seat once the children all turn to look at me, their eyes glowing blue, and I know that they will Hurt Me, Again, Like The Others.


    ¡°Please, stop the bus,¡± I scream.


    The bus driver turns, and it is my grandmother.


    I know it''s her, even though it doesn¡¯t look like her. It¡¯s mouth is outstretched in a giant smile, inhuman, the points of the mouth stretching farther and farther as she looks at me.


    Her short stubby fingernails were replaced with long claws, her hands too big, the knuckles protruding and boney on the long gangly fingers. Her old hands were knotted and curved, the pockmarks more numerous than the stars in the sky.


    The demon¡¯s curly black hair and pointy ears, it¡¯s brown skin and beady black eyes were not my grandmother, but for whatever reason, some part of me kept telling me it was.


    With a rapid twist, and a devilish grin on her face, the bus careens of the road, in the air, and soars into the valley. I close my eyes and prepare for impact, but it never comes.


    We never crash.


    We fall forever, through the sky, the screams of all the children, coming out in one long wail, and they go up and down, up and down, like a roller coaster ride.


    I hate amusement parks.


    I wish to finally crash, but it never comes. I cry, my tears falling onto the front window, as the bus is vertical, dropping through the blue empty void of sky.


    ¡°Stop,¡± I whisper. ¡°Make it stop.¡±


    The bus drops, and I prepare for pain as the window approaches. The last thing I see are the window wipers, and the reflection of my grandmother in the window, excited that we will all Die Together.


    We do.

 Cut

    Fourteen Years Old


    I kissed Jennifer, and she even let me get to second base with her, and it was all I could think about that day.


    I¡¯d never kissed a girl before.


    I kissed someone, but he didn¡¯t count, because We Don¡¯t Talk About That Day.


    Jennifer smelled like cinnamon, and her brown hair reminded me of it. I sat in the bigger living room, feeling guilty about kissing Jennifer.


    Not that I didn¡¯t like it, but that if my mother found out I wouldn¡¯t get to do it again. Also that I didn¡¯t do more, and stopped when someone started watching us. Kissing and groping each other in the park was not a good idea.


    I wonder if I am her type, but I figure I¡¯m not. Everyone was Jennifer¡¯s type, but I didn¡¯t care. I wanted to be her favorite type.


    I lay down on the couch, and fall asleep after a long day at school, and a long time after school doing things that I shouldn¡¯t do.


    <hr>


    I awake in my bed. It¡¯s night time, and everything is Full HD, so I don¡¯t know if it''s just a dream.


    For some odd reason, I know what I must do.


    I get out of my bed, in my blue dress nightgown, sheer and to my ankles that I dislike. Mother never lets me choose the clothes I want, because those are boy clothes, and you wear too much black anyway.


    I became irritated when I walked down the narrow stairwell, her closet filled with only brown and orange clothes.


    I walk through the smaller living room, only illuminated by the blue glow of the computer. The Windows XP logo seems odd to me. I wonder who left it on, and why it didn¡¯t go dim on its own.


    The computer was my place to ignore the Horror Of Daylight, but it could never protect me from the Many Horrible Things In The Dark. I stare at wishing it would speak back, and then I continue into the kitchen.


    I feel ridiculous for being attached to an inanimate object. It couldn¡¯t do anything but distract me from The Horror of Daylight. I laugh at myself as I search through the drawers, trying to find a knife.


    I can never remember where anything is, in the house I have lived in, for several years.


    I finally found the knife in the drawer.


    The drawer is right next to the closet that holds the washer and dryer. The dryer was my favorite, because sometimes I would put my brother inside, and we would laugh together as he spun inside. Until of course, my Mother found out, and we couldn¡¯t do it again.


    I smile, remembering the fun things we could now do that my brother was older. I pick up the large flat cooking knife, with the blue handle, and laugh, thinking about what other things we could do when my Mother left for work, so we couldn¡¯t get in trouble.


    I sigh as the cold blade pushes into the top of my arm.


    I don¡¯t feel a thing, as I push it down my arm, like butter, the skin falling off, exposing the muscles and veins. I¡¯m so happy when I see the fat fall off my arm, and am overjoyed that it worked.


    I could now be Jennifer¡¯s Favorite Type.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The knife gets bigger as I lop off more parts of my body. After finishing my left arm, I make work on my right, and worry how I will get everything off my back without any help.


    This time I have cut too deep, and I start to bleed. I wonder why I didn¡¯t bleed before, with my exposed tendons. My dream answers me, and the blood spurts out in long, hot, and fast pulses, splashing on the wall, and onto the hard white tile.


    I cut.


    Satisfied of the signs that I Am Still Human, I then cut the sides, the love handles. I wonder why they call them love handles, as there was nothing about them to love.


    I realize that somehow, I am naked, in my kitchen, but I have never taken my clothes off. I still do not realize that this is a dream, and I am more than happy to finally become Jennifer¡¯s Favorite Type.


    I cut.


    No parts are good enough to keep. I cut off my ears, because they are too small. I cut off my nose, because it is too wide. I cannot cut my eyes yet, because how else would I cut off all the parts I don¡¯t need?


    It takes some time to cut off my lips, which are too big. They were ridiculously big, sticking out and red, looking nothing like my actual lips. I still didn¡¯t think it was a dream, the obvious red flags looking normal in the blood soaked kitchen.


    I am irritated that one eye is slightly lower than the other, even though I have been told You Look Perfectly Fine, but I know it isn¡¯t true.


    I know it.


    I am now a skinless, noseless, earless freak, and now I wonder if I have not done enough. I decided to keep going until nothing was left. Nothing was what I needed.


    I was sure that Jennifer liked skinny guys, even though I wasn¡¯t skinny and not a guy. So I wanted to make sure I would never get fat, ever again.


    This time it hurts when I cut into my arm. I don¡¯t know why.


    It doesn¡¯t matter anyway. It¡¯s supposed to hurt.


    I cried quietly and closed my eyes, awkwardly cutting into myself like I was playing the violin. I sob deeply hoping that the pain will end, but it won¡¯t.


    My flesh falls to the ground, and I look down, seeing pieces of me all over the tile, which is no longer white. Yet my flesh still persists. I can never cut off enough. No matter how much I cry, or beg, or scream, it refuses to leave.


    I cannot handle this. I want to be Her Type.


    I drop the knife to the floor, and I decide that I need to make compromises. No one is perfect. This is as close as I will ever get.


    But I remember.


    My eyes.


    ¡°Sacrifices Must Be Made.¡±


    I push my skinless fingers into my right eye socket, the trouble some eye that is slightly lower than the other. I cannot lower my left eye socket, and I cannot bring up my right.


    So I only need one eye.


    It makes perfect sense.


    Wet sounds surround me, and grab onto a corner of the wall jutting out. It stings against my skinless self, the muscles twitching and spasming from the contact of foreign contamination.


    I shudder, wanting to rid myself of my foreign contaminations.


    This eye is all that is left.


    I scream and pull it out, but it will not budge. It is hanging on, out of my right eye socket, swinging like a pendulum, mocking me for trying to become Beautiful.


    It won¡¯t happen, not now, not ever, but I will get rid of all foreign contaminants. It¡¯s the only way to get rid of it, it has to all be done at once or else it might grow back.


    I pull as hard as I can, and I try not to make a sound, but it doesn¡¯t come out. Like a parasite my eye¡¯s tendon is stuck, and it refuses to leave. I don¡¯t want it. I don¡¯t need it.


    I stumble to the ground and pick up my trusty knife.


    I cut.


    It¡¯s hard to finish, with the blood pouring out of every part of my skinless body. I can¡¯t grip the knife properly, and I definitely can¡¯t aim properly either. Everything is harder to do with one eye, but I tell myself, of course everything is harder after surgery.


    I lean onto the white kitchen walls, and try to get a good grip on the eye, but I can¡¯t. My hands are too wet from all the blood. So I lean my head onto the wall, and try not to slide downwards.


    It¡¯s hard to stand up now from all the blood loss, but Sacrifices Must Be Made.


    I hold the knife up to my face, but the blood makes my head slip downwards anyway.


    I die.

 Candy Man

    Sixteen years old


    I am tired of being fat. It is exhausting.


    Walking up and down the stairs is hard because I get out of breath from just a single stair case. I don¡¯t like being tired all the time.


    I¡¯m Tired Of Being Tired.


    So I decided to go on a diet.


    I wanted to lose weight really fast, but I didn¡¯t know what I was doing. I went on the internet, and found a lot of websites with great advice, that really wasn¡¯t but I had no idea.


    As long as I got the results, how could I ever know?


    So I started to learn about basic health care, and what to avoid, and what to eat, and how often to exercise. It was going so well, I lost five pounds, but it wasn¡¯t fast enough. So I decided to try more and more things.


    I stopped wearing a jacket because I learned that the body expends calories when it tries to warm itself up. I took cold showers, and drank coffee, because caffeine is a natural appetite suppressant.


    I ate very little, and did diets with catchy names and themes. I traded advice with online friends who needed tips and tricks as well. I kept a little notebook, and was very detailed.


    Soon I was a true expert. I would wake up in the morning and eat four egg whites(40), coffee with Splenda and cream(55), and feel absolutely great! Lunch was never to be had, and dinner was usually water(0), some kind of strange salad(200), and if I was feeling daring, some bacon(125) was added as well.


    It worked and I was so excited. I had lost thirty pounds! Thirty! I had never lost that much weight in my life, and I was so proud of myself. Two months of hard work had paid off.


    I was still Way Too Big, but I knew if I kept going then I would finally be Just Right very soon.


    The next day, during lunch, I decided to tell all my friends the good news. I had lost thirty one pounds, and I was amazed, and couldn¡¯t wait until I could feel better.


    There was an awkward silence.


    I immediately knew that no one believed me. I knew that I was so big that no one could tell, but the number on the scale did not lie. I was upset. One of my friends, Jack, told me, ¡°I think you should wait a bit longer first, and then maybe try harder.¡±


    I didn¡¯t eat lunch at school anymore to save money, and I didn¡¯t like the oily food anyway either. I didn¡¯t eat dinner because what Jack said made me so upset.


    I tried to learn about more things I could do, and then I learned about fasting. I decided three days would be good, not to hurt myself, and then I would drink some soup and be careful for a few days.


    I didn¡¯t want to do anything dangerous after all.


    On my third day, I finished my fast. I was famished. I had never been so excited to come home, and eat a sandwich! The bread(235) in the kitchen was golden brown, and soft. The cheese(160) was sublime, and the butter(84) made my mouth drool upon sight.


    I was feeling so bad, as I hadn¡¯t eaten a sandwich for such a long time. They weren''t filling for me, and the butter was bad for me, after having nothing but water(0), TUMS, and black coffee(0) for three days.


    That sandwich was my teenage rebellion, and I was ready to break all the rules.


    My mother was in the kitchen, large enough to fit a couch, a TV and a computer, along with the rest of the kitchen. She sat on the couch, watching me make my sandwich, and decided to speak up.


    ¡°I am quite worried about you Dead Name. You¡¯ve been eating a lot lately.¡±


    I look at her and then I realize she doesn¡¯t know anything about me.


    I haven¡¯t eaten in three days.


    I throw the sandwich in the trash can.


    That night I dream of waffles, and I wake up biting my pillow.


    On the fifth day she notices and I refuse to eat out of spite. I am a horrible child. I know it. My Mother knows it. Everyone knows it. I am petty and I will win this imaginary fight.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    I go to sleep that night and dream of Candy Land.


    <hr>


    I have never been so excited to see food. This was better than the magical sandwich made of gold and cheese. This was everything I needed.


    I was not afraid of this dream. How could I be?


    The yellow brick road was not brick, but yellow Peeps and dyed marshmallows. The grass was green licorice, and the trees were tall candy canes. I looked into the sky, and saw cotton candy clouds.


    I hoped it would rain soon, hoping that I would get something even more delicious. I didn¡¯t know where I was, but I knew I didn¡¯t want to leave. How could anyone?


    As I walked down the yellow road, I met a nice old man. I stopped to ask him for directions. He was peculiar in stature, but he was nonetheless still polite.


    His body was made of marshmallows, and he had striped peppermint buttons. He had a monocle, a tophat, and a candy cane cane. He was more than happy to give me directions, and lead me to Candy Castle.


    We would never go to Candy Castle.


    When I bent down to hug him, I got stuck to his body. He laughed, and I laughed, and he told me, It¡¯s okay, you¡¯re such a nice young lady anyway.


    I tried to pry myself loose, but I couldn¡¯t. The old Marshmallow Man continued to laugh, and said, this happens so often, don¡¯t worry about it. Everything was so funny, and the more I struggled the more I got entangled into his soft and sweet body.


    I remembered that he was candy. The world was candy. I wondered if I myself was made of candy as well. I started to lick, and then my hunger returned. Nervously I took a nibble, not wanting to hurt the old Marshmallow Man.


    Oh, that tickles, he said. Be careful there.


    Emboldened, I started to bite into him, and his laughs became uncomfortable. I didn¡¯t care. I was hungry. I didn¡¯t even like marshmallows, but he was the closest victim. If not him, then the next candy man I would have crossed paths with.


    The more I bit into him, the more he screamed.


    No joy was left in Candy Land.


    He screamed in agony and pleaded with me to stop. He told me I was such a nice young lady, and this made me even angrier. I was not nice, and I was definitely not a lady. The cotton candy clouds turned dark, and thunder rumbled above.


    I tried to cover the Marshmallow Man¡¯s mouth as I bit into him. His screaming was loud, and he was interrupting my meal. I didn¡¯t like someone taking my food from me, and I started To Get High, off of not just the sugar, but his screams.


    No one could bully me in Candy Land.


    No one could tell me that I ate too much in Candy Land.


    He cried for his mother. I wondered how Marshmallow Man had a mother. Was it the Gumdrop Fairy?


    He cried for his daughter, his grandchildren, and for Candy God, as I finally tore through his arm, exposing his candy bones. They were made of pixy sticks, and I grinned at the ridiculousness of it all.


    His tears were sweet as well. It was blue, and tasted like my favorite flavor of Jolly Ranchers. Marshmallow Man still tried to fight, but it was no use. I was younger and bigger than him. He couldn¡¯t win.


    I had eaten my way off him by now, but I wanted more.


    I always wanted more.


    This wasn¡¯t The Good Stuff, but I told myself it would be okay once I arrived at Candy Castle, and could massacre more law abiding candy men. I broke his pixy stick bones, and his screams echoed through Candy Cane forest.


    He asked me why I would do such a thing, and I replied, ¡°I¡¯m hungry.¡±


    Through his tears, he informed me that they had plenty of vegetables to go around.


    I balked at the very idea of eating vegetables in this wonderful land of candy men that I could tear up and consume. There was a valid alternative that I could eat, and I could continue my diet, undisturbed, but vegetables?


    Never.


    Nobody would get hurt, and at worst, the Doughnut Police might give me a few years. But it wasn¡¯t about the food anymore. I wanted Marshmallow Man to suffer. To hurt.


    It¡¯s supposed to hurt anyway.


    Gumdrops rained down from the sky, and now Candy Cane Forest was dark. Not much was left of Marshmallow Man, not even his hat. I was pleasantly surprised to learn it was made of chocolate.


    He hung on to consciousness as I sat on top of him, his remains sticking to my hands, arms, hair, and the seat of my pants. Marshmallow Man again asked me why I was doing this. He wanted to know before he died, so his death would have meaning.


    ¡°Sacrifices Must Be Made.¡±


    He died knowing his death was meaningless.


    My heart raced as the gumdrops rained down faster, and the lightning lit up the dark. I could have him all, and no one could stop me. I was the strongest one here. Not Mother.


    I woke up.


    <hr>


    The more I thought about Candy Land, the more I was worried that something was wrong with me. I knew it was not a real man, but his death felt very real. He cried for those he loved, and I wondered how my brain could create an entire personality and family for Marshmallow man.


    I told my friends, worried that I had some kind of subconscious issues.


    They thought it was hilarious.


    I told my coworker, and she laughed as well.


    No one was worried about my dream, that I had murdered a sentient thing for food, and I knew that I was being irrational. Yet there was this nagging feeling that it wasn¡¯t about the food.


    It was never about the food.


    I don¡¯t eat marshmallows anymore.

 Hole In The Wall

    Nineteen years old


    I live with my father now.


    He gives me privacy, and even though he is possibly stranger than my mother in personality, he takes the time to talk to me and ask me about my day. I never question that I love him, and I never question if he loves me.


    I got my first boyfriend too!


    It was very easy Pretending. No one ever thinks that someone would Pretend at church, or work, or at home. I Pretend all the time, I¡¯m very good at it now. I got so good at Pretending, that I started to believe that my games of make believe were real, and got myself a boyfriend.


    He is just like me, a Pretender too.


    I like going to church just to see him.


    I lean on his shoulder and his warm arm wraps around my waist as I listen to the sermon of the week. It¡¯s about the ills of sexual deviants. I say nothing, knowing that I am Pretending, and I worry if the pastor knows.


    The pastor knows that my family is Troubled, and that we sometimes cannot pay our bills, that we are loud, that everywhere we go, people know us as those people. I am paranoid now that everyone knows that I am Pretending.


    The pastor, Pastor Good Christian Man, tells us all that he is truly worried about the state of the Earth. He claims that he doesn¡¯t hate gay people, but worries that the Earth will be scorched in fire, if they continue.


    I wish I was so strong to burn the Earth by my mere existence.


    Opening my mouth, the flames of my hatred and anger curl around the globe. I listen to the sounds of death, the crackling of fire as I burn it all down to the ground. I am a Vengeful Old Testament God, and I don¡¯t allow my creations to sin.


    I am brought back to the present, when the sound of crackling fire is replaced by roaring applause. The wasps buzz and buzz around each other, making noise with their stingers, and I am the only ant there.


    Next week, our pastor, Pastor Good Christian Man would give a speech on the brutality of violence against ants. The irony was so strong I could choke on it.


    I go to work the next day, and I am asked many questions by wasps on what it''s like to be an ant. They¡¯ve never seen an ant before in this part of the forest. They talk about all their ant friends, and how I¡¯m not like the others.


    I nod and smile, my $2.13 an hour not enough, and I resist the urge to self immolate myself in the middle of the dining room. Again, fire calls to me, and I think about becoming a fire ant, not a regular one.


    Fire ants are strong, independent, and they can do anything.


    I am not a fire ant.


    I go home at six AM, my shift is finished, and I return to my quiet house. I pray that my siblings aren¡¯t awake to ask me if I can make them food after I had just gotten off of work. I walk down the old stairs, the steps too big for my feet, and they groan.


    They groan, and I grimace, nervous about falling down. Someone falls down once a week down these stairs. We were all loud and fast ants, running with a purpose. Why stop when a cliff is approaching? We will survive the fall.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    I trip on the last step down.


    After stripping down to my boxers and donning something resembling a tshirt, I crawl into bed. I cannot sleep. The sun has already risen, and my neighbor, Mr. Hello, How Are You Doing Today?, is playing the music of his people, the wasps.


    It is hard to sleep, and I shift in bed. I hear a clatter, and I look down, chastising myself for not being more careful. My knife had fallen off the bed, and I tuck it back under the pillow for safe keeping.


    One could never be too careful.


    I finally fall asleep, listening to the music of the wasps, and I wonder if the Horror Of Daylight will stop the Many Horrible Things.


    <hr>


    I am in an empty room, surrounded by the color blue. I know its a nightmare, and I don¡¯t care anymore. After nineteen years, I have accepted that they will always be there.


    There is no use fighting it. This was just life.


    It¡¯s supposed to hurt anyway.


    I survey the room, and am confused that this room has no windows, no doors, yet there is a light coming from somewhere. The wallpaper is blue as well, the Victorian era print faded in the room that is big and small at the same time.


    I try to find a way out as I walk around, but I can¡¯t find anything. I rub my hands against the frayed wallpaper and I look down. There¡¯s a hole. A hole that appears where a missing door knob is broken.


    I think it is an exit and I crouch down, peering into the hole.


    An eye greets me back.


    It¡¯s iris is red, and it is strained, veins popping and bulging. I can see it, trying to force itself through the cramped hole. It mumbles something, and I put my ear up to it, wondering if he needs help.


    Is he too trying to escape the Many Horrible Things?


    The whispers are quite low, and he continues to repeat himself. I can¡¯t hear a thing. The more he whispers, the louder he gets. Soon the walls are shaking, and fissures erupt from the floor.


    The incoherent noises from the eye only get louder, and he talks faster and faster, and I don¡¯t know what he is saying. I can¡¯t. I don¡¯t know what I¡¯ve done, and I tell him, I¡¯m so sorry.


    He starts to talk slower and I can comprehend his words.


    ¡°There¡¯s a hole in the wall, where the Devil can see all your sins.¡±


    I stand there in the collapsing room, listening to his proclamation. The Lord of Lies knows that I have been Pretending. I cannot hide from his watchful gaze. I know God is not looking, but he is.


    He knows.


    I scream, and wake up, repeating the words he has said, and I sit in my bed. I breathe hard and fast, and I relax knowing that it was all just a dream. There is no way he could know.


    Impossible.


    Everything is blue, but not as much as it usually is, and I have become so normalized to the nightmares, that this quiet moment in my room doesn¡¯t alarm me. It is never quiet in the ant hill, there is always running and rumbling, shouting unless everyone is asleep.


    I calm myself, and tell myself, Everything Is Fine, Don¡¯t Worry About It, Stop Thinking About It.


    I glare at my broken door, the reason I sleep with a knife under the bed.


    The door knows that I hate it, and it punishes me.


    It slowly opens, and I¡¯m not surprised, because no one knocks anyway. What I am surprised to see is me. I walk over to myself, and with a somber expression I have come to help.


    ¡°You need to wake up. This is all just a dream.¡±


    I look up at me, and I don¡¯t like what I see.


    I woke up.


    <hr>


    It is lunch, and we are all sitting at the dinner table. I am Pretending again, because I don¡¯t know what else to do anymore, but still, I want to not Pretend any longer.


    It¡¯s so tiring. I don¡¯t like this game.


    I tell my step mother and sister about my dream. I think it''s a bunch of nonsense, and that I¡¯m just under stress. They don¡¯t.


    My step mother asks me what I¡¯ve done, and my sister is sure that I am possessed. I must go to church more often. It¡¯s the only solution!


    The Devil has marked me, and soon he will drag me down, along with all the others that were tricked by his lies! Everything will be fine as long as I don¡¯t listen!


    I nod and agree.


    I go to church three days a week, but he is still watching, every night, from the hole in my room door.

 What Have You Done?

    Twenty one years old


    I work everyday now, and I do not like it.


    I like it better than amusement parks.


    Fifty hours a week, complaints about overtime, I am still scheduled for overtime. Wake up at 4:30 AM, return home at 6 PM, after three bus rides and a stare from another man who thinks that I am Easy Meat.


    I am no longer an ant surrounded by wasps. There are many bugs in this forest, but they are just as strange as the land of wasps, just in different ways. Today on the bus a man fell asleep and leaned on my shoulder.


    I didn¡¯t move until my stop came, nervous about if he would be angry if I woke him up.


    The walk back home was the same, the cracks in the sidewalks the same, the neighbors dog was the same. He yipped and yapped, and I liked to scream back. They would bark at you unless you screamed back, and I took the excuse to release my frustrations.


    After screaming and being screamed at by various dogs and flustered neighbors, I return home, bored. My $500 a month room, fully equipped with roaches, noises, and no heat is there to greet me.


    I worry about what will happen next winter without any heat, but I try not to dwell on it. It¡¯s July.


    Everything Is Fine. Stop Asking Me If I¡¯m Alright.


    It¡¯s Thursday, so that means I need to take my medication. I will no longer be an ant. I follow all the instructions, and I inject the clear liquid into my stomach. It burns the inside of my body, and I am positive that it is sliding around inside me like a snake.


    It is not, but I want to believe.


    I decide to go to sleep early, and I want to wake up as something else, but I don¡¯t know what kind of thing I would like to be.


    Just not an ant.


    <hr>


    I¡¯m at work, and everything is blue.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    I¡¯m working hard, to get the food out in the drive through on time. I don¡¯t want to mess up. I don¡¯t know what time my shift ends today, but that''s okay, I can leave once the rush is over.


    I reach down and get a burger, put in a back, give it to my coworker. The beeps get louder, and then stop, and I repeat. Get a burger, put in back, pass on. I stare up at the screen for what is next to come, because it is odd we have gotten the same order twice in a row.


    The words are unintelligible.


    I look around at my coworkers, the busy bees, to ask for help. None of their faces I recognize, and then I know.


    This is a dream.


    It had been so long since I had one. Every night was just nothing,  and I did not complain. The Many Horrible Things At Night were gone, and I didn¡¯t want to be ungrateful.


    I was so happy to have a dream, I didn¡¯t notice that something was wrong. That all their faces were the same. That they walked around, looking like they were working, but not really doing anything.


    ¡°Everyone, this is so wonderful,¡± I shout.


    The busy bees all turn to look at me, and want to know what is so wonderful about minimum wage, oil stains, and the beeps they would hear when they close their eyes at night, trying to sleep.


    ¡°This is a dream,¡± I say. ¡°That''s so cool! I¡¯ve never been able to do this in a dream before!¡±


    All the sounds stop.


    The air is still, and frying turns off. They all drop their bags, and ketchup, ice cream cones and straws. They slide, legs not turning, still in place, and they stare.


    I have done something wrong, but I don¡¯t know what I¡¯ve done. Shouldn¡¯t they be happy? This is a dream! We can have so much fun! They disagree.


    No one is blinking, and then I notice that all their faces are the same. I feel like I have seen the face somewhere before, but I cannot place it.


    When I wake I know it is the face of my bully as a child.


    For now I am worried about what I have done. I like my new friends, in this dream, and I want to come back and visit. The Manager comes. The manager is me. She¡¯s angry.


    ¡°You need to leave,¡± The Manager said.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I won¡¯t do it again.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t come back here. We¡¯re kicking you out. I¡¯m tired of you.¡±


    The Manager points her large sausage fingers at me, and she doesn¡¯t stop. I stare at it, mesmerized and then everything closes in on her finger.


    My point of view changes. I am a bee, and I am flying towards her finger to sting it. I get closer and closer and then-


    I woke up.


    At least I know I don¡¯t want to be a busy bee anymore.


    I stopped taking my medication.

 Happy

    Twenty Four years old


    I have decided to keep the promise I made to myself many years ago. To be happy. The Many Horrible Things don¡¯t visit me anymore. They kicked me out. They got tired of me.


    I stopped Pretending, so they had no more ammo to use against me.


    I lived alone, and they could not take the shape of my family, tearing me apart at night.


    They were bored of me. There was nothing else left to take.


    Once I had lost everything there was only things I could gain.


    I was no longer afraid, but apathetic, after years of becoming numb to their tactics. There was nothing else to do but leave.


    I am not as excited as I thought I would be about their departure. I thought it would make me happy. I¡¯m not.


    I try many different things to be happy. Men, drinking, not drinking, reading, staring at the ceiling, trying to Put Myself Out There, but it is not enough. I am confused as to why the things I usually like don¡¯t make me get that nice feeling.


    I remember my promise one night, after making a little house for my little simulated people on my computer.


    I wondered if they were really happy, if I had controlled everything for them.


    Then I realized that nobody controlled me anymore.


    So I could be happy.


    I finally gave myself permission to be happy.


    It was a very underwhelming feeling. I sat in my messy room and looked around, wondering if I was in another nightmare. It could be possible. I had woken up inside a dream, and then another.


    But no. This was all sadly real.


    I take out my phone and decide to be happy.


    I set up an appointment on my phone to the gender clinic, and everything is done. I am no longer an ant. I still don¡¯t know what I am, but I don¡¯t like being an ant.


    <hr>


    I have told all my friends to call me New Name. New Name is happier, louder, and makes a lot of jokes. New Name goes to bars and hits on girls who don¡¯t like him back.


    That¡¯s okay.


    There are plenty of fish in the sea, but I¡¯m afraid a fisherman might get me first. So I fumble over my words and don¡¯t get a single fish¡¯s number, yet plenty of attention from the fishermen.


    That¡¯s okay. I am now New Name, and everything is so much better.


    I do not think of calories, or what people think, or if someone is watching me, I know it, I can feel it in my skin.


    I might not be able to pay rent next month, but I¡¯m not that worried. I cross the street with Laura, to the next bar, and pester them for whiskey. We bother the bartenders all night.


    They don¡¯t like me.


    I don¡¯t care.


    The bartender¡¯s name is Mike. He¡¯s a skinny man, with short black hair, and brown eyes. He is happy until I walk through the door. I order things I cannot afford, and the very large and handsome bearded man who is trying to sleep with me buys them all.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name,¡± I ask the bartender.


    ¡°Oh it''s Mike.¡±


    A small grin spreads over my drunken face and I laugh. The bartender doesn¡¯t understand what¡¯s so funny. I drink something I¡¯ve never had in my life, but I know I want more, and the bearded man will give me whatever I want.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    So I called out for the bartender.


    ¡°MiKe WaZoWsKi,¡± I yell.


    He turned three different shades of red, and ignored me.


    ¡°MiKe WaZoWsKi, I need another uh...this.¡±


    I hold up my fancy glass, from the last bar that I had stolen, and the bearded man grins at me, and I grin at him, and I tell him, I like your shirt and beard and face, and I want to get more alcohol, pretty please.


    I wonder what he does for a living, but he never tells me.


    I assume he sells drugs, because, of course, it''s that kind of town. The dealers fix the pavement and buy neighbors cars, while the government bulldozes more trees and creates more housing no one can afford.


    I continue to call out for MiKe WaZoWsKi.


    MiKe WaZoWsKi ignores me, and the other patrons at the bar, giggle, loving his new name.


    ¡°MiKe WaZoWsKi,¡± I yell. ¡°My cup is empty, so are my pockets! I need more!¡±


    He tells me to stop or else I will have to leave the bar. I sulk, and the nice bearded man, who probably sells drugs and people, tells me it''s okay, and he¡¯ll order for me from now on. The rest of the night is a blur.


    All I remember doing is singing Frank Ocean along with a man who was so flamboyant, he needed a warning label. A woman that had somehow brought in a black labrador let me pet him and feed him something that didn¡¯t look right, and, getting the nice bearded, and possibly on the nation¡¯s most wanted list, man¡¯s phone number.


    I lose it as I stumble into my taxi, because I am now so sloshed I cannot feel my face.


    When I arrived home I hit my head against the front door and expected it to open. I know it can open. It¡¯s a door, it''s what they do!


    My drunken brain doesn¡¯t remember how keys work and I rub the door, telling it the same things I told the bearded man all night, believing if I told it nice things it would do what I wanted it to do.


    You¡¯re really cute, you can call me anytime.


    I giggle and remember that doors need keys to open, and I quietly mutter to myself a sex joke about how the bearded man could unlock me any time and I stumble into my bedroom.


    Now the world is spinning but I feel so happy. I had never had this much fun before.


    I search through my shorts but I don¡¯t have the bearded man¡¯s number. I am upset. He was nice and let me rub his arm all night, told me I am so cute for a man. I tell myself it¡¯s best because he might just skin me in his basement, because I am not used to such polite attention from a man.


    I am sure that this is all a trick, and I¡¯m still paranoid.


    I lie on my bed, that has no frame, a thin sheet, and an ugly comforter, and I am so happy.


    I wake up in the morning, and I am confused. I am so happy, I am sure this must be a trick.


    I don¡¯t have work, and I am expecting something to happen. I get on the bus to the library, and it¡¯s quiet, and now I am overwhelmed. Will the bus explode? Will the passengers start to eat each other? Will I explode?


    This is all just a simulation, and the guy who made me decided to let me be happy.


    When I finally got to the library, I expected Ashton Kutcher to be there, to jump in and scream ¡°Surprise!¡±


    He would tell me that I am still dreaming, that I am not really free. That I am still pretending and not New Name. I imagine him jumping and screaming, saying, ¡°You thought you made it out, but you didn¡¯t! You¡¯re still sleeping! Got you!¡±


    I rub the blue patterned wall near the entrance of the library, and I am nervous. I know the trick to tell if I am dreaming is if I open a book and there are no words, but I¡¯m afraid to open one up.


    A concerned librarian watches me and comes over. Like all librarians she has the standard, Brown hair, Brown Eyes, Forgettable Clothes, Cute Face.


    I need to stop checking out this librarian every time I come here.


    She seems like she is worried that I am having a stroke from the way I am caressing the wall, and I tell her Everything Is Fine.


    I am scared because I mean it.


    Everything Is Fine, and so I go to the Featured Books Of The Month bookcase.


    Everything Is Fine, and I pick up the first book that I see.


    Everything Is Fine, and inside there are words and I know that I am not dreaming.


    It is a strange feeling to no longer be dreaming anymore. To not think that happiness is a thing that is unattainable. I try to read while I sit in the back, somehow more silent than other parts of the quiet library.


    I am still scared and excited, because I know without a doubt, that I am not dreaming. The possibilities of things I can do now are exciting. No more Horrible Things will get me. No more Sacrifices Will Be Made.


    I check out a book on mystery, because I never read them, and I want to be New Name instead of Dead Name. New Name tries new things, and isn¡¯t afraid to do simple things, like read mystery, buy new clothes, get a haircut, or go to the pool.


    Dead Name could never do those things because it wasn¡¯t allowed by Mother, or Dead Name would worry about what other people would think. Sometimes Dead Name would believe that simple things were impossible, when they never were.


    I go home, and I am happy, because I never dream again.