He knew it was risky. There was always a danger of getting lost in the brush and losing sight of the path forever. But he was full of admiration for his own strength and courage. Besides, if he didn't explore, he would definitely lose his marbles. As all the negative news reports suggested, being part of the stifling rat race had already proved too much for a lot of people. Momentary release was the answer, the key to a happy life. Release and self-indulgence.
Marcus wished, above all else, that society would allow individuals to be individual. He was sick and tired of being bound by unseen social restraints, every day growing tighter until they left you used and suffocated, a mere shadow of your true self.
But deep down, he knew that his dream would never be permitted to come to fruition. The anonymous powers-that-be would never allow it. Modern society was far too concerned with public image, maintaining a front. Every individual persecuted by thoughts of how their reputation could suffer if their friends or colleagues saw them do something a little less than ordinary. Everyone was bound by the same stifling societal rules.
One day Marcus would show them all the right way to live by going to work without his daytime disguise. That would get the tongues wagging around the office, wouldn't it?
Who knows, maybe some of the more courageous people out there would follow his example. Then he would be a pioneer, a hero! People would remember his name forever, write it on the walls of public toilets in pink lipstick.
Now it was high time for a well-earned spot of pure self indulgence. He had worked himself up into a real state. Oh dear!
Marcus opened a second drawer in the dressing table and took out his sewing kit, one of his most treasured items.
Selecting an especially long, sharp needle, he proceeded to pierce his hairless, ivory white left thigh. Once, twice, three times, each thrust slightly harder than the last, driving the point of the needle ever deeper into the flesh. Blood trickled down his baby-smooth leg and onto his twitching foot. He smiled and moaned. The sensation made him feel so alive, so liberated, so powerful.
All too soon, enough was enough.
Still stark naked, Marcus got up from the dressing table. He felt weak and groggy, and his make-up was in danger of being completely ruined by his watering eyes. He made his way unsteadily back to the bathroom where he showered once more, gently rinsing away the congealing blood and patchy, smeared make-up. Cleanliness was important.
When, at last he had finished, he made a mockery of his daily routine by going back to the dressing table. It was late, he should get to bed, but the mere thought of having to once more don his fake exterior in the morning was simply too much for him to handle.
He cocked his head to one side and stared at himself in the mirror, soon becoming lost in his own bottomless, dark brown eyes.
His wounded leg had started to bleed again, but Marcus was oblivious. The bleeding would stop soon, and the wound would scab over like all the others. Now would be the perfect time to make his stand, to reveal himself to the world. He had been in hiding for far too long. It just wasn't healthy.
Suddenly, Marcus came to a conclusion.
No, not a conclusion.
A revelation.
No more.
Tonight, it ends.
Never again shall he fear the ridicule or snide remarks of his peers. Why should he? It was just as much his world as it was theirs. How did they know that it was he who was strange, it could well be that they were the abnormal ones, not least for continuously suppressing their desires and ignoring their true vocations in life. Sad fucks.
He couldn't remain hidden away within these four bare walls forever, drowning in his own pitiful existence.
Quivering with excitement and anticipation, he went to bed with Leon, his special friend.
Oh, Leon. You are so warm!
The next morning, Marcus was awake bright and early. Today was the big day and he was feeling suitably refreshed. Invigorated, even. So much so that he spent over two hours in front of the mirror, checking for body hair and carefully applying layer after layer of bright, garish make-up.
Of course, he couldn't resist the odd stab with his precious needle.
Perhaps he over did it slightly, the occasion getting to him, because soon his flesh was peppered with tiny hole, pin pricks and blood covered his body in a pink sheen.
A hundred pin pricks, a thousand. What did it even matter?
It was time to go to work.
On this red letter day, Marcus couldn't be bothered with the train. Instead, he hailed a taxi and stood silently at the front door waiting for that impatient bleep of a car horn with blood oozing from tiny wounds scattered all over his body. The needle itself protruded from his bloody naval like a miniature flag pole.
He felt faint, and occasionally had to lean against the wall to avoid collapsing in a heap, smearing it with a sticky maroon pattern. He was frightened and apprehensive, but he knew he must be strong. He must set an example for everyone else to follow. This was the day that changed everything. The day they would talk about for year to come.
It was very early in the morning so there weren't many people around.
Yet.
Anyway, he had his ginger beard for protection, and in one hand as a precautionary measure he held Leon, his special friend.
To most people, Leon was just a Teddy bear with patchy brown fur matted with dried blood and other bodily fluids. Other people didn't know the relationship Marcus and Leon shared. They had been very special friends for thirty-five years or more. In his teenage years, before Marcus began finding outlets for the rage that threatened to consume him from within, Leon was the only person in the world who understood.
In the other clenched fist, Marcus held an eight-inch stainless steel carving knife. That was for any interfering cunt who gave him a hard time. Or even so much as a funny look.
Today was the day he would make his mark.
A Hell of My Own Creation
The dreams started over a year ago. At first I dismissed them as some curious bi-product of my over-fertile imagination, but as time passed I became convinced that there was some higher purpose to it all. The dreams were always virtually identical in both length and content, the only discernible difference being their intensity. Each one was stronger, more vivid, and more visionary than its predecessor.
That was the most worrying thing of all.
The dreams themselves were quite tame, as nightmares go. There were no terrible monsters, no madmen brandishing axes, no blood or gore. In fact there was absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing except a stark, empty world devoid of all activity and life of any kind. No people, no animals, no cars. Completely silent. In my haunted nocturnal escapades I was in perpetual limbo, wandering aimlessly through deserted streets from empty house to empty house, frantically searching for the smallest fragment of recognisable life. Always searching, but finding nothing.
Worse than the dreadful apocalyptic dreams was the feeling I was left with when I finally tore myself away from the black abyss of sleep. I seldom felt refreshed as one should after eight hours or more of uninterrupted sleep. Instead, I was filled with a sickening feeling of loss, remorse and dread. It was such an unbearably heavy sensation of loneliness and desolation that I awoke on more than one occasion to find white-hot tears streaming down my face. I felt worthless and insignificant, as if my entire existence meant nothing.
These awful feelings soon passed however, leaving me drained and, ironically, badly in need of more sleep.
And then the cycle would begin again.
In time, my work suffered. It wasn't long before I found myself with no appetite what-so-ever for food, exercise, or anything else. I was disappearing inside myself, being sucked into my own subconscious, piece by piece. I longed for sleep, yet feared the inevitable dreams and it grew harder and harder to distinguish them from reality.
Eventually, I reached the conclusion that I must confront these dreams of mine and conquer them. For the s
ake of my sanity, if nothing else.
So I began to study books, websites and papers on the subjects of sleep and dreams. Everything from ancient lore to scientific studies of sleep patterns. I was surprised to learn that for all our biological and technological advancement, all mankind's wonderful achievements, we still had no idea what dreams actually were or what purpose they served. There were a million theories. But that was all they were. Theories.
Working under the assumption that everything in nature has a purpose or else it wouldn't exist, I set about further investigating the obscure logic behind my nightly forays into that lifeless realm.
In one particular book, I was fortunate enough to chance upon a highly interesting chapter on something called 'Lucid Dreaming.' The art of training oneself to gather one's senses enough to 'wake up' whilst still within a dream and taking control of it, thereby being in a position to live out your every fantasy. At first I was sceptical, finding the concept difficult to grasp. But I forced myself to understand. If nothing else, it was a captivating possibility.
The basic technique involved adopting an habitual cue, something you do on a regular basis in your everyday life. Looking at your watch or running a hand through your hair, for example. Apparently it was possible to train yourself to 'check your reality,' and determine whether you were asleep or awake every time you involuntarily performed the cue. In theory, one day you would look at your watch or run a hand through your hair and, and through sheer force of habit, check your reality and realise you were dreaming. The indefinable power of your imagination would then be at your disposal...
Over the following months I practised and perfected the technique, using sneezing as my cue. It was the height of summer and, me being a hay fever sufferer, I sneezed quite a lot at the time. Every time I sneezed I would mentally check myself, and immediately and enthusiastically determine whether I was asleep or awake. Knowing that in the fantastic world of dreams, we mimic our everyday actions performing a perverse parody of life, I decided that it could only be a matter of time before an opportunity presented itself.
And all the while, the dreams themselves, the root of my anxiety, were getting steadily worse. They were becoming ever-more vivid, and so disturbing that I arrived at the pathetic point of actually dreading the onset of nightfall, the time when every man on earth was forced into a lonely confrontation with his own personal demons. In daylight hours you can run, you can hide, you can distract yourself with menial tasks to hold your demons at bay.
But there is no hiding at night. The demons will always find you under cover of darkness.
I visited that washed-out empty wasteland almost every night, and even with my new-found knowledge of lucid dreaming, I sometimes had difficulty distinguishing the dream from reality. Also, despite my hatred and primal fear of the dark, I found myself sleeping more and more, spending every spare moment within the warm confines of my bed. My own bed became my prison.
Shortly, my whole attitude changed completely. I began to view the recurring dream as if it were simply an alternative reality. At one point I actually thought of myself as lucky, being the only person on the face of the planet who knew exactly where he was going when the lights went out and the mind took over.
I practised faithfully the lost art of dream control, and patiently waited for the dawn of understanding when I would finally break the shackles of consciousness and set myself free to roam the sparse netherworld in search of answers.
I don't remember the trigger event, the sneeze, at all. I can't even be sure that there even was a sneeze, or if my expanding mind had somehow found another gateway to the land of dreams. However I got there, the sensation I felt on arrival will stay with me forever. It can only be described as returning to your senses after a long, enforced absence, and being astounded by the sudden explosion of light, sound and colour.
It could only be compared with being born. Or re-born.
In fact, it was all rather too close for comfort to a profound religious experience for my liking. In short, I felt enlightenment of the highest and purest order.
When I came to my senses, still locked in the dream, I was alone as usual. This time I was in an unfamiliar, apparently deserted house when suddenly, with effortless ease, I simply woke up. I felt fresh, revitalised, and more acutely aware of my familiar yet unfamiliar surroundings than ever before.
It came as no great surprise to discover that I was trapped in the same, all too familiar nightmare.
Once again I was visiting that sad, deserted shadow land where nobody lived and nothing stirred. There was only one perceivable difference; this time, I was awake and fully in command of my senses.
Did this now mean that my strange other realm was somehow real and tangible? As real as the waking world?
I shuddered with excitement as the realisation threatened to overwhelm me, forcing me back inside myself and into oblivion. That could not happen. I had to take control.
I seemed to be on the ground floor of an old, dusty house. I was slightly disorientated, and swayed on my feet as I clawed desperately at the surface of my mind, trying in vain to uncover some clue as to my whereabouts.
Was it a forgotten relic of my past or some new invention?
Did it even matter?
Vaguely, the flickering images fading fast, I remembered looking for something in the dream. The object of my misguided search, however, eluded me. I tried manfully to remember, but the answer to my question danced agonisingly just beyond my reach. Beyond my comprehension, perhaps.
And there was something else. A nagging sense of urgency. Whatever 'it' was, I had to find it. It was vitally important.
But what, exactly, was vitally important? To whom was it important, and why?
The confusing dream within a dream was soon forgotten as the last lingering images gradually faded into obscurity.
Then the thrill of it all seized me, and refused to let go. The heightened awareness, the confidence, and the strength flooding through my veins was similar to being under the influence of a powerful, mind-altering drug. I had a sudden overwhelming urge to explore this strange new world I had stumbled upon.
I instinctively knew that it was either dusk or dawn. The place had a gloomy, semi-dark feel about it. Turning full circle, I scanned my surroundings and noted that I was standing on bare wooden floorboards, littered with debris and covered with a thick film of dust. There was no sign of any furniture, and faded wallpaper hung from the walls in strips, revealing the naked plasterboard beneath. There were no visible doors, just gaping empty holes marking the places where they used to be. A heavy, damp odour hung in the air. This place, whatever it was, hadn't been occupied for a very long time.
Then, there came a soft clunk. A small, insignificant noise which non-the-less shattered the foreboding atmosphere that had settled over the building.
What was that?
I stood still, not even breathing, straining to hear above the deafening silence.
On another level to that of which I was used to functioning, I instinctively knew I was not alone. I also knew that whatever was sharing this experience with me was a key part of the puzzle.
Through one of the gaping holes in the wall, I could see a staircase. Cautiously, I crossed the room, stepped over the threshold, and started climbing the ancient, creaking stairs.
Heart thudding in my chest, I decided to search each room systematically, but found only more examples of disrepair and crumbling neglect. There was no sign of life.
Reluctantly, I admitted to myself that the mysterious noise I had heard must have existed only in my mind, a mind which had become accustomed to a relentless onslaught of abuse and could not recognise the luxury of pure silence.
Regardless, I decided to take my quest further afield.
Turning to make my way back down the staircase, I was suddenly taken by an insatiable urge to do something reckless, dangerous even. I had not experienced such a sensation since my teens, an inexplicable yearning to do the
unexpected, the irresponsible. Just for the hell of it. A religious fanatic would call such feelings the work of Satan, but on reflection of my troubled teenage years, I think that they are little more than desperate cries for recognition. The desire to be noticed and acknowledged as an individual, and not just one of the pack.
Before I knew what I was doing, I was upstairs and standing before a large bay window. I wanted to leap through it and spiral through the air like a deranged Hollywood stuntman. The only thing stopping me was the possible implications of my actions.
What if I was awake after all?
Or sleepwalking?
I could expect a few broken bones at the very least least. And what if the old wives tale tale that said if you died in your dreams then you died in real life was actually true?
But then that wicked little voice that lies buried deep within us all over-ruled my sensible half. I pushed the nagging doubts and clouds of uncertainty aside, and with a strangled cry of defiance, away I went.
I felt an amazing rush of adrenaline coupled with a strong feeling of disbelief as the window glass splintered and shattered all around me. Falling helplessly through the heavy air induced a panicky sense of mortality.
I became convinced that I had made a terrible mistake, one that was going to cost me dearly. I had what seemed like an age to contemplate all I had done in my life up to that point, an existence culminating in this one fatal error of judgement. This one final act of reckless stupidity.
It's true what they say. As if I was drowning, parts of my life flashed before my eyes in an abstract sequence of flickering memories. Childhood events that had shaped my future, dead pets, forgotten friendships, lost lovers...
Then, I hit the ground.
I braced myself for that sickening blast of pain, but it never came. Gingerly, I got to my feet and examined myself for injury. Incredibly, it seemed I hadn't even caught a stray splinter of glass on the way through the window.
X: A Collection of Horror Page 2