The nightmares that follow us waking.
I awoke drenched in sweat, from a dream of my father. Blood was pouring from the cavity where his nose had been and he was shouting to me; it was the same dream that had haunted my sleep for years after. The last moments of my mother and the screams of my sisters chilled me even now, and I gave up on the idea of sleeping any further that night and rose.
I staggered out of my little hut and toward the trees. The sun had risen on the furthest edges of the horizon, the light stretching barely over the tops of the leafy branches, and I thought, there will be people moving about, there always are, and a few kind words will chase the memories from my mind.
The morning was misty, the hollows of Bohemia filled with clouds of rolling fog. I plunged into one, thinking I knew the ground well enough to get by without seeing. I was wrong. The nightmare had followed me, louder and more real than ever. I felt myself there as sure as I had been when it had happened--the smoke of my house filled my nose, and the screams of my poor sisters rang in my ears. It had been years since I had allowed myself to think of them waking, and my voice would have joined theirs had I had a moment to dwell on it now. But I had none, for then my father loomed above me, deformed and bloody with his voice rasping, gurgling. I tried to turn away, grabbing for my little dagger as I did; even now I slept with it close by. I heard the growl--"Take the boy!" and I struck out with the knife, for I was not a boy anymore and had seen battles enough. But the terrors we have as children are the ones we never outgrow, and I do not know where my blade hit, for my eyes were clouded by fog and tears.
[Would-be rescuers, sympathizers, and even potential enemies are all welcome; do not be worried by not knowing him, being busy or otherwise delayed. New, slow and late tags all fine, and you're welcome to slice up an evil Persian or two.]
I staggered out of my little hut and toward the trees. The sun had risen on the furthest edges of the horizon, the light stretching barely over the tops of the leafy branches, and I thought, there will be people moving about, there always are, and a few kind words will chase the memories from my mind.
The morning was misty, the hollows of Bohemia filled with clouds of rolling fog. I plunged into one, thinking I knew the ground well enough to get by without seeing. I was wrong. The nightmare had followed me, louder and more real than ever. I felt myself there as sure as I had been when it had happened--the smoke of my house filled my nose, and the screams of my poor sisters rang in my ears. It had been years since I had allowed myself to think of them waking, and my voice would have joined theirs had I had a moment to dwell on it now. But I had none, for then my father loomed above me, deformed and bloody with his voice rasping, gurgling. I tried to turn away, grabbing for my little dagger as I did; even now I slept with it close by. I heard the growl--"Take the boy!" and I struck out with the knife, for I was not a boy anymore and had seen battles enough. But the terrors we have as children are the ones we never outgrow, and I do not know where my blade hit, for my eyes were clouded by fog and tears.
[Would-be rescuers, sympathizers, and even potential enemies are all welcome; do not be worried by not knowing him, being busy or otherwise delayed. New, slow and late tags all fine, and you're welcome to slice up an evil Persian or two.]