Schizophrenic Dreams

He fights against his mind, creating memories to erase others. But memory is a tricky thing, hard to capture and shape, and it leaks through his drugged haze, reminding him of what was once real.

Schizophrenic Dreams  

He sits in the dark, relishing the caresses of the sweet scented wind. It tugs at his hair like a playful child. 

Sweet, gentle child. 

It ghosts across his skin like a phantom lover.

Incorporeal, intangible lover. 

It crawls down from the ceiling, predatory eyes trained upon his flesh. 

Itching, twitching flesh.

Humored, adoring, fearful eyes watch with the fascination of a murder victim as stained hands attempt to clutch their life's essence flowing out from beneath his fingers, crimson water bubbling up through the ship's cracked hull. Imminent tragedy looms over him, swirling mist enveloping him in the sweetly enrapturing parody of his brother's arms.

Mischievous child, stop that tugging.

He bats away the wind's persistent fingers, skin brushing skin. Head cocked, he leans back to gaze into fixated eyes; eyes that bore into his soul exposing every crevice, every locked up, forgotten secret, eyes the same cerulean blue of his own.

Hello lovely.

Tender amusement dances across his lips, mirrored in the young child's eyes, his own smile reflected in the abyss of color. Inwards he falls, trapped inside the irises, looking back at his own body through stained glass. 

A hand traces his hip bone, sketching love with pliant forefingers. Affection burbles in his ear, a steady stream of bliss cascading down the shell, splashing into the current that carries it to the heart of his brain. 

You love it.

Virgin red lips curve upward into a deceptively gentle smile.

Of course you do.

Whispered words warm his heart, worming their way into the four chambers, bedchambers of passion upon which he writhes, absorbed by ardor. 

You. 

        Are. 

                Mine.

That sculpted mouth twists wickedly. Pearlescent teeth taper into jagged edges. Impalpable caresses rake his skin, raising angry welts. Hate oozes out, black oily sludge contrasting with red velvet ropes. Floating, drifting, strolling laughter curls about him, choking love, depriving it of its sun. Tendrils of shadow creep about his body, climbing and twining about his trellis, blossoming into a garden of panic and pain. 

The ceiling dweller has caught him, caught him and dragged him down, down to the floor where the wood sticks uncomfortably to his cheek and the darkness settles upon him like hands pinning him into place.

He lay there, helpless and pathetic in his helplessness, head lolling off to stare at his cadaverous reflection in the floorboards. Flitting shades hunt each other, there in the glittering surface, like fish darting about their shallow confinements. The more he stares the more real it becomes, warped lacquered wood molding and melting before his eyes into rippling waves. 

A roiling sea of ink heaves out hundreds of arms, limbs that drag him beneath the surface, his bed is but a vague memory of the shore winking out of sight above him. 

He offers no resistance, far too used to such not-so-strange sensations. 

Blindly he gropes about, fingers questing for the kiss of hard plastic. Hands wander over the aqueous carpet, sifting through debris to find his treasure: his brother’s belt, sweaty t-shirt, broken bottle, prescription with some other name on it. Deft movements coax the pills from the bottle, carrying them swiftly to his mouth before the tide snags them from his grasp. 

He twists and turns about, thrashing wildly, chest constricting with the single thought of flickering hope, hope that the pills have blessed him with, like the grace of Mary, the sheep's Virgin.


A serpent crushes him; flesh and liquid scales writhe together in the fluid flurry of movement. A forked tongue flicks out to mark a trail from neck to shoulder, a possessive tattoo of unrequited love.


Hope can only do so much. It is a David before Goliath, tremulously confronting those wicked fangs dripping glorious madness onto his face. Enraptured by delirium, perhaps he can convince himself that he is the victor, just as David did as he took his dying breath.

His own distorted reflection screams back at him in the gleaming strands of venom like a funhouse mirror, capturing the darkening bruises and tear streaked cheeks, a still frame of his shame.

The pills call glimmers of light to chase the madness away.

The life-draining, all-consuming vice grip of ghost scales relinquishes its grasp, leaving no scars visible to light’s disapproving eye. Churning waters calm. His body crests the waves. His liquid pillow embraces him one last time, every drop slowly draining from the room, seeping beneath the dresser, mopped up by the threadbare carpet, flowing in rivulets beneath the doorjamb. Shadows retreat to the corners of the room, quivering there in abject terror, his temporary drugged sun keeping them at bay.

For now.

Author's Note

This is something old with a few things added to it. It's not the best, but I suppose it's not the worst either. Please (honestly) tell me what you think of this.

Reviews

[Delilah5]

You rock! Awesome imagery. I love it! Hope that you continue on in this genre. Good job!

[Lux]

Ah ha ^^; many thanks, I'm flattered that you think so highly of my writing.