iKreydin
Hey! Guess what time it is, kids! That's right: it's fucked up dream time! Once again.
So me and some faceless acquaintance from Gardner were in a cross between the GHS auditorium and the room in Loews Theatre in which Will and I saw Babylon AD. There was some kind of fundraiser going on and my mom was helping out as a volunteer. Probably a band thing. Me and Faceless wandered up and down the steep aisles, me constantly scratching at my left forearm. I had a white longsleeve shirt on, but a bubble of blood kept rising up from my arm and pressing against the fabric. So I kept wiping it away.
This continued for a while. It gradually got worse. Then at one point, my forearm just started to pour blood. It bubbled up as if in a rage, now soaking my clothes, the stains getting larger and darker. I grasped my arm as tight as I could to try to stem it, but it streamed over my hand, a sickly pink-orange-red color and so thin. I tried to show it to my mom, knowing it was dire, but she stared, stone-faced, and said she couldn't help because she couldn't get at it. To which I ripped my sleeve in half to expose the black wound. And then suddenly I was running laps around GHS, clutching my arm and looking at it. My arms were so white, but I had some nice biceps.
The feeling of mortality was so real that when I awoke, I just laid still, disturbed that I could fabricate such a real emotion.
So me and some faceless acquaintance from Gardner were in a cross between the GHS auditorium and the room in Loews Theatre in which Will and I saw Babylon AD. There was some kind of fundraiser going on and my mom was helping out as a volunteer. Probably a band thing. Me and Faceless wandered up and down the steep aisles, me constantly scratching at my left forearm. I had a white longsleeve shirt on, but a bubble of blood kept rising up from my arm and pressing against the fabric. So I kept wiping it away.
This continued for a while. It gradually got worse. Then at one point, my forearm just started to pour blood. It bubbled up as if in a rage, now soaking my clothes, the stains getting larger and darker. I grasped my arm as tight as I could to try to stem it, but it streamed over my hand, a sickly pink-orange-red color and so thin. I tried to show it to my mom, knowing it was dire, but she stared, stone-faced, and said she couldn't help because she couldn't get at it. To which I ripped my sleeve in half to expose the black wound. And then suddenly I was running laps around GHS, clutching my arm and looking at it. My arms were so white, but I had some nice biceps.
The feeling of mortality was so real that when I awoke, I just laid still, disturbed that I could fabricate such a real emotion.