Drabble

Damn. I did it again. Used up all my happiness in one day, and all I've got for the night are thoughts filled with self-pity and self-hate. I don't know how many times I've talked myself in and out of these moments. At times it seems like I've been doing it all my life.

A Shadow of Contradictions

I was walking along a dim corridor with my hands on my ears. I didn't want to hear the demon's cackle. I was so afraid. My "sister" serves him. If I do what she says I still might live. But I can't take it anymore. I want to run, to escape.

I reached the end of the corridor. A familiar flight of stairs stared down at me. I looked to my right. A door-less room beckoned. An open chapel, thank heavens. I walked inside, eyes taking in the carpet, the flowers, the gold, the magnificence that accompanied worship.

I froze. There was something wrong. Ahead of me, before the altar steps stood two statues on either side. I recognized the one on the right as that of the previous Pope. Slowly, with great horror coursing through my body, I turned to the other statue. It had the same grand red robes and mitre as the first statue, but the figure was black. For a split second, it reminded me of the Black Nazarene, and then with absolute certainty I knew what, or who, it was. The Black Pope. The Antichrist. I ran out of the room as fast as I could, only to be blocked by a familiar half-robed statue. I pressed on with one goal: to get out. I fervently hoped I could duck under his arms as he swooped down to catch me. I could not.

He lifted me up by the waist, his arms locking me to his marble body. Every bit of my body screamed at the touch, as if I might burn. I must not get caught. I must run away. With a renewed strength I struggled with all that I have. I must have taken him by surprise. He dropped me. As soon as I touched the floor I ran and kept running without looking back, without caring if the familiar statue followed.

Then I heard voices. My mother and sister were talking. Suddenly it came to me: that for all the deaths that I have seen, for all the fear I have experienced, with my heart bounding rapidly in my chest, that I was, in fact, dreaming.

The sounds of reality woke me, but not completely. Half of me was still trying to escape the demon and my "sister". I refused to wake. I was determined to see my dream to the end, to emerge victorious in a dream in which I was probably meant to die nightmare-fashion. And so the conscious mind joined the unconscious to preserve the present mind, distorting the natural flow of dreams that is both beautiful and ugly, fascinating and terrifying, all of which are according to the thoughts of the Self, more hidden than exposed, even from himself.