{ W h o } Emmett and Howard. { W h a t } Nightmares. { W h e n } The Midnight Hour (Friday). { W h e r e } Their Trailer. { R a t i n g } R (Graphic Descriptions Of Gore) and Turbo-Angst { S t a t u s } Complete
He never remembered the beginning of the dream, he was always right in the thick of it. They were in that room, years ago. There was a hatchet in his hand, he could remember the feel of smooth wood grain against his palm. Walt was there with him, though he never actually saw him. Emmett just knew he was there. He was always there, in every dream and in every memory Emmett wanted to forget, like a caricature of his own darkness.
It doesn't matter. What does matter is what his hand was doing. He lifted the hatchet, a motion that was simultaneously sluggish and immediate. He couldn't sense the weight of his arm, of the hatchet, but he knew he was moving. There was a man in front of him, and Emmett could remember his face with startling clarity. He was some blubbering lummox, some poor, corpulent patsy. Emmett recalled every single line in his face, the way his nose seemed crooked between set in eyes and fat, red cheeks.
The hatchet came down.
The first blown landed on his right cheek, slicing through flesh and breaking bone. The man's eye popped like a grape, blood and viscous fluid streaming down his skin in thick rivers. He was screaming then, howling unintelligible gibberish. Emmett yanked the sharp tool out of his face, remembering the way it pulled free with a sickeningly wet shunk.
Might as well make it an eye for an eye, Walt said.
Emmett tried to say something, but he couldn't speak. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out but a harsh rasp. His arm went up again, as if tied to a string, like a puppet on a stick. The bladed head of the hatchet dropped like a judge's gavel, right into the man's other eye. The screaming was continuous, but it was more than just the man's voice rebounding back at him. The walls were spinning, stretching outwards as he lifted the hatchet and struck again and again. Red was flowing like a waterfall over the ruins of the man's face. Emmett kept trying to say something, but he couldn't breathe. Walt was laughing like it was a god damn comedy show. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.
Emmett woke with a gasp, trembling and soaked in cold sweat. He took gulps of the precious air he couldn't get in his dream. His dream. He was all right. It was just nightmare of a memory long since passed. He was going to be fine. He was going to be...
Sick. He was going to be sick.
Emmett threw himself out of his cot, nearly tripping in the tangle of sheets as he made his way to the door. Boss, roused from his slumber by his master, followed after him in a click of nails and jangling collar. Emmett nearly ran into the door in his hurry to get outside, making his way to the back of the trailer where he could proceed to empty his stomach in peace. His body heaved, long past of the point of actually having anything left to regurgitate. He just sat there, shaking and cold. Boss made an investigative sniff.
"Git outta there." Emmett grabbed the dog by the collar, dragging him back to the step with him. He sat, one hand on Boss and the other in his hair.
It was getting worse. Every time he had the dream, it was with another alarming layer of clarity.
"Fuck." He muttered the word into the wind, losing it the moment it left his lips.