*WARNING* This is not suitable for most audiences as it contains graphic violence and elements of horror. You have been forewarned, precede at your own discretion.
Preamble: This is not my normal kind of story, in the fact that it isn't my normal writing style. I woke up from a dream, not necessarily a nightmare, since I wasn't afraid. I jotted down my traverse into the dreamworld without first editing the results. What also makes it different is the fact that I had dreamwalked my first time. For those unaccustomed to the term, Dreamwalking is a peculiar event where one gains consciousness in a dream state. There are various tales and fables about people becoming stuck in their own dream, or even dying while aware of it, creating a coma. If you're dead, you can't ever awake from it, even in a dream. In other cases, the dreamer is able to control every finite detail. They can change the landscape, create enemies, destroy them, or save the princess if they so pleased. But my trip into dreamland is a bit less fantastical, though I was conscious and controlled my actions. I may not be proud of it, and I could lay blame on the fact that it was only a dream. But it was real enough.
There was a girl with a knife. She had brought people into the house and killed them. There was blood, everywhere. I had gone alone, with no weapon. So I probably had a personal grudge, and was extremely angry. Otherwise I wouldn't be there. Especially with no weapon.
I stalked around the house, and so it appeared that it was a large house that grew old with years. It was shabby by now, but once beautiful. Details were scarce, I could tell I was in a dream.
So I tentatively went to the front door.
I knew she couldn't kill me outright, no, there was a method to the killing. It had to be drawn out, it had to have the lust of death. The dying, the pleading. It wasn't going to be pretty if I wasn't the victor.
It would be ugly even if I survived. I also knew that I had no other choice. That would be the course of the dream, I had no other path to take.
There was no way to back out. I was locked into a mortal combat. Winner lives, loser dies. I side kicked the door, rotting wood splitting at the impact of my heel. I kicked it again with more force, and the large wooden door fell with a thud.
No use hiding my entrance, she knows I'm here, as I do her. It was inevitable. I stalked the halls, the wooden floorboards creaking with every step.
Can't be caught off guard, or I won't be given a chance. And old phonograph began to play a tune, in the living room. It was the same tune my mother used to hum when I was a child.
I didn't pause or hesitate.
I went into the room, and found the abandoned song. I lifted the needle, stopping the melody. I stopped the record from spinning also.
After I carefully had placed everything back, that was when she spoke. "You were always the sentimental bloke, weren't you?"
I didn't rush my turn to face her. I knew she was relishing the moment. When my eyes fell on her, it made me sorrowful.
She was still as beautiful as I remembered. Even through the dirt and grime. The blood and tears that shredded her clothing revealing a dirty body.
The malicious glint in her eye. I could remember what was once there. But this girl, I did not recognize.
"And you're more cruel than I remember. I'd ask why, but I already know that. I'd tell you that I need to stop you, but you know that. We understand each other, but this is the end of the line," I replied.
"The end of the line for whom?" She retorted. As fast as a hummingbird's wing a knife flowed into her hand. A motion so fluid, the eye can't track it.
Just the way I taught her.
Her hand jerked past my face, as fluid and raucous as the lighting itself.
Even though I'm fast, there was no way to dodge a blow as fast as the knife play I've taught her. She was the best student. Near perfect. The trail of blood leaked from my cheek down to my chin.
But the teacher always keeps a few tricks to themselves. I stepped on her flowing dress, and struck her temple with my elbow with such a force that her dress tore apart, and her body flung back.
She crashed into the door, but it barely cracked. I must've been getting rusty. I walked over, nonchalant.
She thrust the blade, but not with the speed and precision as before. The blade ran across my arm, drawing a rivulet.
I gripped her arm with my uninjured hand and held her wrist in a hold that forced her to release the knife.
It struck the floor, where its sharp blade pierced the floorboards. She struggled against my grip, but then I suddenly let go.
And then I sidekicked into her stomach. The audible whoosh of her breath leaving her was overshadowed by the crash of her body going through the door.
She scrambled away, trying to escape me. But I stooped to grab the knife, her only friend in this murder spree. Now its turned against her. She finally is able to get up, and she stumbles away.
I take my first steps slow. I play a little with the knife, getting the feel for it. It was a little light, but the grip fit snugly in my palm. I followed her into the kitchen. The scene was a massacre.
The bodies were haphazardly strewn around the room. There was only two, but the bodies were mostly ... Not altogether there.
The reek of death permeated the room. It's a wonder that I hadn't noticed earlier. There was an obvious way that she played with the victims, and then got bored as a child would. Then she killed them.
She enjoyed the pain of others as a boy would torture an ant. She seemed calm in the midst of the death and destruction. She perched herself right in the middle of it, next to the ribcage of one of her victims. She ripped the knife from the carcass, and assumed the fighting stance.
Now we were both armed. I also walked to the middle of the room, to were there was enough room for both of us. We began to encircle each other, as animals would their prey.
She thrust her knife at me, but she must have been still shaky from the blows she received. I easily sidestepped the thrust, and cut down across her arm with my own knife.
She recoiled and huddled herself, and whimpered. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
I stepped toward her, to end it. "Please, stop," she whimpered. I did hesitate there, as memories proceeded wantonly.
That was when she struck. The knife blurred as it delved into my side. Pain cleared my head from my memories, but it was too late. She began to chuckle as she twisted the knife, then cackle as I grunted in pain.
Through the pain, I mustered up my arm, and brutally slit her throat. She choked and gurgled, hands now clutching her throat.
It wasn't a pretty death, none are. I eased back, and rested against the wall, knife still inside my abdomen.
I eased it out, and grunted with the effort. Then I watched as my last love died.
I had almost forgotten through the turmoil that I was dreamwalking. The pain was real, but what hurt the most wasn't the knife. It was the stab to the heart.
