NIGHTMARE

By: Mara

 

Disclaimer: This story and everything in it is MINE! Please ask before borrowing. And thank a lot, Dean. This dream was because of that Hunter game I played with you…

 

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I knelt on the floor, cold and naked, sobbing from the pain. My wounds, deep slashes across both of my thighs and one on my stomach, bled heavily onto the concrete floor. My attacker, tall, dark, and intimidating, hovered over me, laughing maliciously, a sound that sent chills down my spine.

 

            “You’re going to die,” he sneered, “and there is nothing you can do about it.”

 

I sobbed all the harder, weak and petrified, wanting so bad for this hell to end. I don’t even know this man. I don’t even know what he wants from me. Abruptly, he grabbed me by the hair and started to drag me across the room. I shrieked and wailed at him, bawling “let go” and “it hurts”. Slamming me against the wall, and then catching me by the wrist, he spun me around and planted me roughly into a chair. The chair, an aged oak piece, creaked ominously under my sudden weight. Leering lecherously at me, the man, to face me directly, sat on the table opposite my chair. I was still weeping and trying to hold in my blood and insides. I stared into his lifeless eyes, eyes that didn’t even look human to me. But, I finally recognized him.

           

“Do you know why you are going die, Trisha,” he questioned me, his voice unexpectedly becoming low and monotone.

 

Trisha? My name isn’t Trisha. Why is he calling me Trisha? I opened my mouth to speak, terrified of addressing this strange man. Escaping him seeming out of the question, the doors being locked shut. Jumping up furiously from his perch on the table, he reached out aggressive and swift and struck me with enough force to send my head reeling. Shocked into silence, I, to make sure I lived to see tomorrow, shut my mouth and chose not to respond to him. His hand, cast of something harder then stone, left a vast stinging welt on my cheek. I once again became aware that I might not make it out of this alive. The sound of his voice, heated and abrasive, brought me back to the situation at hand.

 

            “I ASKED YOU A QUESTION,” screamed my foe, bitter resentment edging into his vocals, “AND I WANT AN ANSWER! DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU ARE GOING TO DIE?! TELL ME!”

 

            “No,” I cried out desperately, “no I don’t!”

 

I knew it was a lie. Unfortunately, so did he. It seemed that out of nowhere a revolver materialized in his hand. His hand, trembling and unsteady, pointed it instantly at my head. I waited for him to pull to trigger on me, curling up in my chair, my arms wrapped around me, to protect and hide myself, clinging to my bare shoulders.

 

            “You should know, dear Trisha,” he hissed, walking closer and closer to me, the gun still resting on me, his hatred for me rising with every step “you should know why you deserve to die.”

 

The look in his eyes and his body language gave dreadful forewarning to his imminent actions. He shot, not bothering to accurately aim - once…twice…three times before he hit me. Too afraid, I hadn’t even flinched when he fired. The third bullet went through my right hand, bones left poking out at the knuckles, and had come out my back, shattering my left shoulder blade. To keep my internals internal, I doubled over after falling out of my chair, my face resting on the dirty and icy floor, my left hand repressing the gushes of blood from my shoulder as I gasped for air, worried of fading into a swoon.

 

            “I’m sorry, but you have to believe me,” I begged to him pathetically. “My friend didn’t mean to kill Mina! We didn’t know she was your wife! She got caught in the crossfire! She wasn’t supposed to die! But it’s not me you want! I didn’t shoot Mina! I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time! Trisha did it! I’m not Trisha! I don’t know why you think I am, but I’m not Trisha! You’re mad to put me through this nightmare! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”

 

            “LIAR,” he bellowed, his thunderous voice pounding my senses, “YOU LIAR! SHE’S DEAD AND IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF YOU!”

 

I think I screamed first, ear-shattering and spine-tingling. But he fired off five more shots, each one agonizingly hitting its mark. The last thing I saw, smoking from its terrible use, was his revolver, pointed at me still, leaving in its wake bloody holes in my battered body and head.

 

And all of a sudden, in a cold and clammy sweat, tears streaming down my flushed cheeks, I was awake. Twisted, sick, and surreal, my dream was terminated.