My Posts and Nightmare

Have gone missing. Not all of them, but some in between things where I've listed as reasons why I loathe this place, mentioned the different teas I've tried (and miss terribly), and then the post about my nightmare.

It's funny. K just shrugged off anything I said about the nightmares, as if it didn't matter. I’d tell her she’s not very good at this 'caring about me’ facade we were playing—but why jinx it anymore?

I thought she might have been the one deleting the posts. I figured maybe ‘Kisaprostitute’ as my old password was a bad idea (which I changed weeks ago, before you try it). I found out others have been stricken by this problem though, so it must be this website.

Either way, I don't want to forget that nightmare (as unlikely as that is), so I'll rewrite it here as best as I can recall:



December 11th, 2011

Last night, I had the dream; the same one that has been haunting me about once a month. 
Not often a dream, always a nightmare.


I start out free from this accursed domain. Sunlight kisses my skin; it tingles. I am wearing my favorite dress. Not the silly dress that K has been cutting inches off of slowly, saying it's unhealthy to want to hide my ankles. (I'm sure she thinks I am like the others and secretly want to slice into my own skin when an opportunity arises).


I’m always covered in dirt, and I can not move. My arms and legs are bound by invisible strings, my eyes staring up at the sky.  The clouds always appear to be taunting me, I think. I’m not sure how to explain it. It is just a feeling I get when I’m drifting into that world.


My heart is still. There was no pounding in my ears, no slight throbbing throughout the body that one normally feels when in rest.


Two men, faces hidden due to the bright sun behind them, walk towards me. I cannot do anything as they place their fingers on my neck, speak in hush voices to each other, and then pick me up. I fear they will use me, defile me, and dump me in the gutter. But no. It doesn’t happen that way. I find myself being exchanged between people, until finally I am rested on a metallic table of some sort.


I'm next to two others, also placed on these tables. One has his chest opened up, his expression peaceful.
He’s dead.


The other is a man in a black suit and red tie, his face gone, the flesh exposed by what I can only assume are horrible burns. He gets up, though. He's not dead.


He struggles and limps towards me, the remains of what should be his face contorting—growing new skin.
I internally struggle and fail to get up, to unleash the screams caught in my throat. He’s getting closer. I want to scream and fight and cry—but I can’t. I am his prisoner; to be tangled and mangled by the one who has no face.


I usually wake up at that point, one way or another kicking myself back to consciousness. Last night I was on the floor in a cold sweat, fighting with my blanket. Somebody was yelling at me to, in their words, "Shut the fuck up!"


The words were ignored yesterday by my still half asleep mind as two of my fingers curled around my wrist, feeling for my heartbeat, for that spark of life that had eluded me in my dreams.