Inhale? Negative, sir.
It felt like someone was crushing his lungs. Squeezing, squeezing.
And then he woke up. The sensation lingered in his chest, and he rolled out of bed, all the while gulping air desperately. The nightmares seem to be getting worse, sir.
He stood in front of his tall mirror, rubbing his chest and staring at his own startled eyes. His red shirt looked like blood in the dim glow of his nightlight, and he rubbed his eyes furiously. His ragged breaths finally began to slow; the imaginary pain subsided.
He was crazy. Absolutely, raving mad. He didn’t really know if “knowing you’re crazy means you’re not crazy” was true, but either way. It didn’t seem to matter.
The air was heavy and humid, and his hair stuck to his scalp like dead seaweed. He imagined the same seaweed wrapping around his heart and slowly, slowly tightening.
Sir, my imagination is running wild and I’m talking to you again. I need therapy.
The person in his mind never answered. Silent, dependable, a hazy cloud of a man, but there. Somehow.
He crawled back into bed and curled himself into a little, invincible ball. The old red comforter pushed aside, half hanging off the bed. That’s okay. He wasn’t going to sleep, anyway. Maybe just shut his eyes hard and wait for morning to come, but not sleep.
Sir, can I ask you something?
Why did the nightmares choose me?
Yeah… I don’t know what happened, but okay. XD The is low key the weirdest thing I written, probably ever.
P.S. The insanity that is this post might have something to do with the fact that it was written at midnight. O.O