Masochistic

Last night, I had the weirdest dream. Now you’ll probably think I missed out taking my anti-psychotics, but I swear I’ve been regular.

It was night, the same kind where most horror stories branch out from: trees making a canopy over the lonely road and making the sky’s darkness obsolete. There was a nip in the air, I remember, because I shuddered, and in dreams these kinds of senses aren’t that vivid. So I was walking somewhere, and the ripping sounds of crickets kept me awake and aware. There was a strong sense of dread (I’m almost sure that I could feel it even as I slept, and not only in the dream). Something was really wrong, or something was going to happen. And it was going to be really wrong.

I did get home, though. I couldn’t understand why the impending blasphemous occurrence was delayed. You see, in books and movies, the epitome of a horror scene happens in some dark, isolated area, when the protagonist is entirely alone. Because that’s the only way people won’t believe him, and then the struggle of proving his experience true begins.

But no, that didn’t happen to me. I was at home. My cousin was there too, somewhere in one of the bedrooms, while I entertained myself with the drone of the telly. And that’s when it happened.

He walked in with the swoop of a malevolent confidence. In his spiraling irises, I saw something of you. I know, that doesn’t seem possible. How can someone have spiraling irises? But you have to believe me. The grey of his iris swirled inwards to his pupil. And it reminded me of you.

He pulled me up with an effortless grab and my feet were inches above the ground. I was hypnotized by his eyes and the more I looked into them, the more I saw visions of our happier times act out in those freakish irises. I was drawn INTO the spiraling abyss – there I was, helpless and vulnerable in his hands. I tried hard to snap out. Even in my unconscious state, I could feel the amount of force and concentration it took for me to look away from his eyes. But I couldn’t. I screamed, I kicked, I called for help. And my voice would die the moment I was entranced with the visions of the past he played to me.

In the middle of the memory of the day you first hit me, this wicked creature kissed me. His hands moved on my body exactly the way yours did. Somewhere, I knew this was leading to something worse. I knew he was trying to consume me, and somehow that was going to strengthen him. His lips moved along mine, mirroring the ways you liked to show you loved me. It frightened me, I’m sure of that, but I couldn’t stop myself from feeling comforted. Comforted? How could I feel any sort of ease in the arms of a monster? But when I ask myself that now, while I’m awake and entirely conscious, I ask myself how I felt at ease with you. And that answered my doubts.

I kissed him back. I didn’t know how I could defend myself when this demon felt so much like how you did. My actions reeked of betrayal to me, and yet who was I betraying?

Then out of nowhere, I heard a loud smash, and then I heard glitters of broken glass shimmer on the floor. I was released from his death-grip, and disconnected from the reminiscent feeling of you. When I pulled myself out of the hallucination in his eyes, I saw him standing straight, with no expression on his suddenly human-looking face. The resemblance was disarming.

My cousin had appeared, armed with a tube light that looked so much like a light saber glowing green, and she had smashed it on his back. She stood there breathing heavy, her hands holding on to the tube so strong that her knuckles looked like they would tear through her skin. When I looked at him, I saw a small projection in his back that grew gradually, until I could see a spinal bone emerge from his thick blackened skin. His body distorted.

I saw hurt in his face. Not hurt from the injury, but from the distance between him and me. I know I sound crazy, but this was so real, I just HAD to tell you about it.

 

So I know now, why you behaved the way you did. For some reason, that dream explains every single action you ever performed, every little word you damaged me with. It explained why your touch felt so apocalyptic and still so cozy at the same time. It explained why your feelings were always so mutilated, always so intense. It explains the scar on your back, it explains the wounds on your arms, it explains your resentment. It explains why you battered me, it explains why I still come back to you and get mauled every time you leave. It explains why every laceration on my wrist is more a reassurance than an SOS.

It explains how you’re malignant and how I’m always crushed.

It explains why you’re destructive and why I’m in love.

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