Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-6822927-20190404175549

This is actually based off my own life, in a way. This is basically my way of dealing with some issues I have been in my life. Not as extreme, of course, but still bad.

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Every night, I walk down a long, dark hallway towards a door, light streaming from the edges my only source of illumination. I am not a fully grown man anymore, but a boy, wearing pajamas which are too big for me.

Behind the door, I hear a voice. It is a low, soft, growling voice, incoherent at times but then it is perfectly clear. When that happens, I hear words, briefly murmured and gone in an instant, leaving only the incoherence. Those moments of clarity are so brief I cannot remember what is said, only that something is said, something dreadful.

Now, as I come to a stop before the door, there is a new sound, followed by someone else’s voice. This second voice is small and whispers, seeming to communicate with the first voice. Or at least, try to. The first voice becomes even more incoherent with every passing moment, and now I am raising my hand upwards, grasping the doorknob and tentatively pushing it open.

What I see will always haunt me. I see my mother, heavily pregnant with a child she never gave birth to, holding up her hands in a desperate attempt to protect herself from a large, hulking man as he lunges upon her, grabbing her wrists and forcing them to the side before he raises his own hand, fingers tightly curled together.

The hinges squeak as the door opens, and my mother sees me in the doorway. Her face turns from a mask of fear to one of pure horror, and mouth is opening in some mute, desperate plea I don’t understand. But when the man turns around, I cannot see his face. He doesn’t have one. It’s all a blurred mess of flesh, hair, and teeth, cobbled together clumsily with no care or patience, leaving a lumpy, hideous visage that radiates menace and hate.

That is when I wake up from the nightmare that will never leave me alone. It has been occurring for two weeks now without fail, always the exact same.

I’m getting tired of it. So very tired. I’ve tried everything, but how do you get rid of a nightmare that never ends? You can’t. It forces its way inside you, like a parasite, eating away at your life. Maybe it’s not the same for everyone, but that’s how I feel.

As I groan, shifting in bed, the first thing I do is reach for my phone, plucking it off the bedside table and unlocking it. There’s a text message from Mark, sent a few minutes ago. I open it.

“Hey man, I think I found someone who can help you out with that nightmare you’ve been having. We’ll be at your place later today. Sound good?”

That was Mark’s theory on my never-ending nightmare. I was experiencing a repressed memory from my childhood. He knew how bad that time in my life had been, everyone did. My father’s serving life in prison for his actions, far away from me. He’ll never be able to hurt anyone ever again.

I text him back without further ado, saying yes. He answered in a heartbeat, his text a mass of excited gibberish and cheering emojis. He’ll be here at noon. Okay, better get the house ready.

Before I get out of bed, though, I check on the picture frame next to it, sitting contently on the bedside table.

It’s my mother, smiling as a younger me, only a newborn, sleeps in her arms. It’s one of the few pictures I have of her smiling. I hope she’s always smiling now. She’s in Heaven with my little brother, why shouldn’t she?

Mark arrives at precisely noon. He parks in the driveway, and there’s a girl in the passenger seat next to him. She’s a Gothic woman, wearing black lipstick that was the same shade as her hair. All her clothing is black as well. Damn, she’s really trying to sell this whole emo thing.

When I open the door, Mark pulls me into a hug, thumping me on the back twice.

“Adrian, man, I’m so happy you’ve agreed to this. Trust me, this will help.”

“Oh? How exactly will it do that?”

The Gothic woman scoffed, slinging the purse over her shoulder. “You doubt my abilities?”

“Yes. I don’t even know you.”

“Oh, my bad,” Mark chuckled nervously, rubbing his hands together, “Adrian, this is Regina Petrov. She’s a hypnotist.”

“A hypnotist? You want me to let someone hypnotize myself to get rid of this nightmare?”

“Hey, a lot of people use hypnotists to deal with… you know, problems with their memories? Like, people who’ve been abducted by aliens?”

“Mark, really?”

“Ahem,” Regina coughed, tossing her long hair over her shoulder, “I don’t help those who wish to prove fantasies. I help those struggling to accept reality.” Then she turned to me.

“So, darling,” she says in an exaggerated accent, “your friend says you’ve been struggling with a nightmare?”

I nodded. “Yeah. He thinks it might be related to something from my childhood.”

“Ah,” Regina answers, finger shooting up into the air like she just had an idea, “trauma from your past. Yes, a terrible, terrible thing. Childhood is the most important stage of human development, it’s where one learns who they want to be. What happens to a child determines what kind of adult they grow up to be.”

“I’ve heard that before,” I mutter, “several times. If it’s true, no wonder I’m such an asshole.”

“Do you want to be an asshole?” Regina says it not as a question, more as an order.

I think about it for a few moments, then shake my head. “Honestly? No. I’ve tried several times to change but I keep dipping back into the same stupid shit.”

“And I’m always here to pull you out again,” Mark said, beaming with pride. I smile back at him, tapping his shoulder fondly.

“I could easily help you,” Regina says, “all we need to do is find the memory which brought about this nightmare of yours, one of the things which you have let define you. Then, once we find it, we can break whatever hold it has on you. That’ll be the first step to solving your trauma.”

I didn’t think hypnotism was a good replacement for therapy, but hey, it was worth a shot at least. It might be fun.

“Does it cost anything?” I asked.

“Mark has told me about what kind of your person your father is. From that alone, I’ve decided my services will be free of charge.”

My eye twitched involuntarily when she mentioned my father, but it wasn’t too bad. I took a deep breath, shrugged my shoulders, and nodded. “Sure? Why not? Let’s get started.”

“Very well. Adrian, sit down on a chair and make yourself comfortable. Then we can begin.”

I roll my eyes, sitting down in a chair comfortably while Regina sits across from me. Mark is fidgeting on the sofa, rubbing his fingers against his sweaty palms with grim anticipation.

Regina pauses, raising an eyebrow as she reaches into her purse. She looks up at me, eyes locked onto mine. “Before we begin, Adrian, I have to ask - are you sure you want to do this? You may be stepping into something painful. Are you prepared to face whatever it is you seek?”

I nod my head. “I’m positive.”

Without further ado, Regina pulls out a pendant from her purse, holding it by a string in mid-air. Mark stops fidgeting and watches as Regina swings the pendant back and forth.

My eyes follow it carefully, and Regina begins speaking in a low, sensual tone. She’s telling me to relax, to lean back in the chair and be comfortable. I need to relax...relax...yes, this is nice...my eyelids are so heavy...I need to relax.

I’m back in the hallway now, but it isn’t dark anymore. I can see shapes and figures everywhere around me, paintings on the wall, lamps in the corner, it’s exactly like I remember. Except for the boy in front of me. I’d know him anywhere, especially in those oversized pajamas of mine. Uh. This is new.

As I start walking down the hall again, I can hear voices behind the white door, and I instantly know who they are. One of them is the man everyone calls my father, but he’s not my father, he cannot be my father, fathers are kind and loving, not cruel dicks like him. The other voice is my mother, and she sounds scared like her life is in danger.

“I have to help her,” my younger self murmurs, but his voice isn’t his, it’s deeper, much deeper. He repeats it again in a voice he won’t have for some ten years.

By the time he reaches the end of the hallway, my mother is crying now while the man who isn’t my father is growling, saying her name over and over again, each time a dark menace growing whenever he speaks. Slowly, I, in a hand I haven’t used in ten years, grab the doorknob and push it open.

My mother’s in bed, heavily pregnant belly bulging beneath the blanket she feebly pulls over herself for protection. The man who isn’t my father is sitting above her, his naked body seething with rage and fury. He says something, something cruel and hateful, then laughs when my mother gasps, turning to the door. When she raises her hands to protect her face, the man who isn’t my father grabs her wrists and forces out of his way, drawing back his hand as his fingers curl into his palm.

“Daddy?” I say, and then the man turns to me, and his face isn’t a lump of flesh, teeth, and hair anymore it’s…

Dear God, I know that face. I know who that is. I’ve seen that face before, whenever I look in the mirror. That’s me. That’s my face. That’s my face my father has… oh my God.

He doesn’t have my face. I have his. My face is exactly the same as his. Holy shit, I’m wearing my father’s face, it’s been on my head ever since the day I was born, holy shit, oh my fuck no-

As my eyes shot back open, everything came flooding back. Regina is staring at me with eyes as wide as her pendant, mouth hanging open like a fool. Mark is next to her, head in his hands as he shakes it slowly. Then he looks up at me, his eyes searching mine.

“Dude, I am so sorry. I didn’t know, I swear to God, I didn’t-”

I ignored him as I sprang up from the chair, rushing into the kitchen. I know it’s here, this is where I keep all my knives. It’s in the drawer when I open it, it looks like there are a thousand knives in there, all stainless steel. I grab one of them and then sprint into the bathroom, heart racing as I slam the door behind me and lock it.

Mark and Regina are knocking on the door, calling my name, trying to bust it open. They’re trying to get through to me, telling me not to do anything stupid, Mark’s here for me, he wants to help. Oh, he helped me alright, he opened my eyes to the truth.

When I look in the mirror, the face staring back at me isn’t mine. It’s the face from my nightmares, the face of the man who killed my little brother before he came into this world, the man who beat me with belts and jumper cables and his fists, the man who screamed and yelled at my mother every single night, the man who made my life hell, he’s in the mirror and he’s looking back at me, dear God, he is me, that’s not my face it’s his face, I need to get it off, get it off, I need to get rid of my father’s face, I can’t bear it anymore, that’s not my face that was never my face I bring the knife up and begin cutting away, slicing through his cheek and then his chin, it hurts so much, he’s hurting me again I need to get it off, everything is going black, Mark and Regina are screaming as I fall and his face comes off… oh, I got it off me… thank God…

When I woke up, I was in a white room, surrounded by doctors and nurses. Some of them looked like they were gonna puke. The others looked like they had. My head was wrapped in several layers of bandages.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” one of the doctors said, a portly man, “mister Pickett, we’ve been considering facial reconstruction surgery, but the damage is very severe. It may not be possible to-”

I didn’t let him finish. “Good,” I sighed, closing my eyes as I leaned into the pillow, “that’s just what I need.”

Life isn’t so bad nowadays. Mark and Regina saved my life, and for that, I am grateful. The doctors keep me in intensive care, under suicide watch. I’ve tried to assure them there is nothing to worry about, but they don’t trust me. They think I’m crazy. I can assure you, my dear reader, if I were crazy, I’d be my father, and I am nothing like my father.

I’ve been vehemently opposed to even the smallest suggestion of reconstructing “my” face, or even that the face was mine, to begin with. They don’t understand, they can never understand, the horror I felt when I realized that wasn’t me, but my father staring back at me from the mirror.

Beneath these bandages my exposed muscles are red and gleaming, recovering slowly. I’m sure I can renter society someday, as long as I never take off these bandages. I’ll have to get them changed every now and then, but that’s alright. One day, I hope, society will be more accepting of people like me. Ah, but that’s a distant dream, one I shall never see. After all, I don’t have visitors anymore, my family and friends cannot bear to look at me. Last time they were here, about two weeks ago, they were seriously talking about forcing me to undergo facial reconstruction surgery.

I swear, if they do, I’ll cut off my father’s face again. No matter how many times I have to, I shall never go another day wearing it. I’ll do whatever I have to to keep it off me for good.

At least the nightmare's gone. 