Two Nights.

My dreams were terrible. The last two days, unfathomable, monstrosities of nightmares.

A girl was wrongfully accused and locked into a dirtied bathroom. It was a make-shift prison.

Shackled were her hands and feet to the pipes.

She was not alone.

A man. His eyes gleamed with murderous, ill-intent, the likes of which this girl, who lay bruised across the room, did not understand.

Her body instinctively buckled and told her to flee. She couldn’t.

Bones stuck out his ribs from vicious torture, caused by his own hands or others, I don’t know. The scars never healed.

Blood shot eyes and a malicious grin. He enjoyed watching his new plaything shiver in the corner of ‘his’ room.

So yes, some days I wake up from these kinds of dreams.


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