Sovereign

Entry 41: Sanders' Journal - 03/22

I just had the nightmare again. It's 3:11AM right now, my stomach hurts, and I'm trying to ignore the smell of vomit on the floor. I kept this handy so I could write it down before I forgot. Just thinking about it makes me want to puke over again, but I already spent three minutes dry heaving so I know there's nothing left to throw up. I don't know why the fuck I would dream up something like this, and it's really scaring me. Most of the things I do in the dream are beyond my understanding, as if I'm meant to do them. And everything feels so real, down to the smells, the feelings, the little undiscernable twitches I usually would never notice in any other nightmare.

The dream starts in a room. The room is small, but the walls seem so far away. I’m seated in the only chair, waiting, for what exactly I am not sure. I can remember even the most inane details, the colour of the wallpaper, peeling at the corners, how rough the frayed fabric of the chair feels under my fingertips as I stroke it over and over. I cannot remember why I am stroking the chair, why it feels so comforting. My legs feel sore as I try to move them; I look down at them, sticking out from underneath black shorts. There are purple blotches on the inside of my left thigh and both of my knees are scabbed over. I straighten them and wince as the scabs break.

You won’t be able to run, not this time.

I think to myself, though I can’t fathom why I’d be running or where to.

I hear a knob turn and stop with a click and turn in the direction of the sound. The room’s door is slowly swinging open. My eyes grow wide as I watch it spin out on its hinges; each individual click is loud as hammers. It feels like I’m awakening from a drug induced haze, I am suddenly aware of many things. The old mattress in the corner of the room, the smell from the chair I’m sitting on, the fact that I am silently wheezing. My palms are slick and I try in vain to keep them from trembling as he walks into the room. I recognise him immediately, the two day old stubble, the full lips pursed in disappointment, the ravenous eyes, darting in his skull.

I am torn between rising to my feet to greet him and staying still and hoping he doesn’t notice me, so I do both, rising halfway then pausing. His head turns in my direction and he tuts loudly.

"After everything I have taught you, you still have no respect."

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry."

I mumble it like a talisman. He turns back to the door, gently closes and slides a key into the lock. The tumblers falling into place are as loud as falling bombs in the silence of the room. He turns away from the door and lets his eyes rest on me, each orb wet and glinting in the weak light of the overhead bulb. I feel filthy and I feel a violent shudder shake me, as though trying to shed whatever he’s seeing that disgusts him so utterly. He ambles in my direction, dragging his feet against the carpet, cracking his knuckles.

"I’m going to have to teach you manners."

My lips move theatrically, but the sounds that escape me are a pitiful whimper. "Please Papa! No!"

I don’t know where that comes from, but once it does, I know it to be true. I am on my feet in a flash, ignoring the pain that lances through my knees. I put the chair between me and him, but it does little good. He grabs the chair by its high back and pulls with all his might. It sails through the air and hits the wall with a crunch that feels like my own bones breaking. His hands are around my neck and I claw at his fingers but they remain taut against the skin of my neck.

He pins me against the wall. I try to kick him, but he swats away my feebly limbs at first, and then ignores them altogether. I land a knee against his ribs and his free hand connects with the side of my face. The whiplash is instant, the world spins around me, it roars in my ears. His boots come down hard on my left foot and I howl.

"Shut up!" He bellows in my face.

I close my eyes and scream with all the air I can manage. He covers my mouth with his palm and I scream through the crevices between his fingers, thrashing like a wild cat. He slams the back of my head against the wall once, twice, thrice. Lights dance before my eyes. I blink severally to chase them away but the effort turns my legs to jelly and I grow silent. His face is clouded over now, no more disappointment or amusement. Not even the ravenous hunger that turned his pupils into hollowed disks. This terrifies me more than the choking or the slap. One hand reaches into the top of my blouse, vulgarly drags it down. He is looking straight into my eyes as his hand paws at me. I want to turn away but he grabs at my chin and holds my face in place. Two fingers dig into the waistband of my shorts and pull down, the rest of the way he manages with his boot.

He lifts me up, drapes me around him. My lip is bleeding; the fight’s been leached out of me.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

The wall is unyielding behind me, rubbing against my back and buttocks. They’ll be purple by tomorrow. I don’t complain, I don’t feel like I have a right to. He is faster now, angling his body ever so slightly so he gains more traction. He holds me up by thighs and his grip is like iron, my feet barely graze the ground. I am wincing but his eyes are closed so he doesn’t notice. I want to be numb to all of this, but I don’t get that luxury. Instead my insides are like tiny circuits, turning on and overheating at his touch, firing synapses at my brain. His movements become frantic and I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in his shoulder, I am biting my lip to keep the sounds threatening to escape me. Involuntary sounds. Shameful sounds. My legs are quivering in his fists, fighting me even as I am willing every bit of me to play dead. He grunts loudly and spasms, his fists tightening like vices, pressing red crescents into my skin. He straightens himself and drops me. I topple over. I try to stand but I cannot bring myself.

He spares me a glance, it is fleeting but naked.

Pity.

He pities me.

"Wipe your face, sweet cheeks. You know you deserved it."

I put my hands to my cheeks. They are wet to the touch and still dripping. He looks me over, contemplating something. Then he walks to the door, opens it and slips past its yawn. I drag myself over to the chair and painstakingly right it. I crawl into its lap, the frayed fabric of its arms feel comforting under my palms. I begin to rub them, over and over, let my body sway, will myself to forget.

The room burns away to darkness, followed by flashes of multiple bizarre and jarring sensations. The smell of bleach and something sterile. Screams of agony. Cold sea breeze through my hair. My body being jabbed with countless needles. the smile of a young girl with brown eyes. A boy's laughter as I try to walk on a stone wall. The smell of roast lamb. The corpses of two little children, both with severe burn injuries to their bodies. Rain. Small feet splashing in mud puddles, one bare, the other covered with a tattered red shoe. A dying child holding my hands. A woman writhing in pain. More screams.

I woke up at this point and threw up. I feel really exhausted and I know I need to eat but I don't think I can stomach anything right now. And I'm too rattled to go back to sleep. I guess the least I can do is clean my own puke off the floor before it stinks up the whole room. I still have to to go to the bunker in about four hours. Hope I don't fall asleep there, in the middle of my look-who-figured-out-that-Magreb-is-the-mole reveal.

I think I hear someone knocking.

Someone is actually knocking.