The Dream Place

Chapter 1 - Sinder

I've been having these... dreams lately. At least, perhaps they're dreams. I'm not sure, they feel as though I'm living them, as though I'm actually in the scene playing out. I wish the dreams weren't so vivid, they show me terrifying things. I mean, I suppose they're meant to, why else would they be so reoccurring? But these horrifying images, they've burned themselves into my memory. I can't rid myself of them.

In my dream, I'm standing in the middle of a field, wearing a thin, light yellow, floral dress and white ballerina flats. I suppose the outfit resembles the careless side of me. My surroundings are mostly empty, as if the field is just a piece of planet itself, floating in space, holding it's own atmosphere. The grass is so green, sometimes I think it's just paint. I occasionally run my fingers through it, just to see if it's real, wondering if the color will smear. The sky above me is the brightest possible blue. There are no clouds because there is no water, which also makes me wonder how the grass can stay so green. There is also no primary light source, no sun or moon or stars. Even without the lighting, the sky seems to stay aglow. The bright of the sky does appear to have darkness behind it, though. As if it is a blue mask concealing something so intensely abysmal that it shows just the tiniest bit. It's a false joy. In the center of the field stands a large apple tree. The wood of it is dark enough to appear black, as if it's charred by fire. The leaves an equivalent green of the grass, making me fear that if it were ever to rain, they would wash away. Bright red apples grow on the tree, such a red that you could notice from space. The tree towers up toward the Heavens, forever reaching for God's touch, but never receiving it. At the foot of the tree lay five apples not nearly as beautiful as the ones on the tree. Their color is faded, their sides bruised. Into each apple is driven a nail, rusted and blackened. This place... I call it my Dream Place.

I lift one of the apples from the ground, turning it, gazing steadily at its nail. What can it mean? As if it's instinct, I lift my finger and touch the tip of it lightly. Subtly, I press the nail. A screeching echoes through the field, causing a shiver to travel through me slowly. My head jerks around erratically, my eyes flying in every direction. My breath becoming short and jagged, a hand flying to my chest to feel my speeding heart beating as the wings of a hummingbird would. I tremble lightly, looking back to the nail. At the point where the nail enters the apple, a small drop of juice forms and trails to the bottom of the apple. It falls, reminding me faintly of a tear. The earth below me rumbles, the sound of it like that of a rolling boulder. A girl then appears in front of me. She's what seems as three feet tall, looking to be about five years old. Her skin is pale, bruises painting her face. The colour of her eyes is black, along with her long, straight hair that leads down to her waist. Beautiful as it is, it holds many tangles. She wears a dress that any little girl would wear on a holiday. It's buttoned in the front from the waist up, fluffed out from the waist down, her puffed, round sleeves covering her shoulders. She's very thin, her cheekbones too defined for a girl of her age, her arms so tiny, they would be broken off if she were shaken hard enough. Her legs are terribly scrawny, her stockings drooping on her, her already very small shoes about two sizes too big. She shakes violently, whimpering, tears hold in her eyes. I take one step near her and she crouches in response, holding her hands over her face. I kneel where I stand,

"Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you." I coo in an alluring voice, "My name's Arynda, what's yours?"

"Sinder." She says, her voice high-pitched and light, reminding me of the little silver bells that hang on Santa's sleigh.

"What's wrong, Sinder?" I ask gently, trying to keep my voice low, to be sure I don't frighten her. She gestures to the nail. It is then that I hear a voice, not so much in the atmosphere as the screech had been, but as if I hear it echoing in my mind. It sounds as if the girl is speaking to me telepathically,

"Pull." She says. I lift fingers to it, gripping it and tugging at it slowly. "Pull!" The voice screams. I yank it from the apple, causing the little girl's body to jerk violently. Her pupils grow wide enough to cover her eye, making it black. Her body becomes still, she stares at me for a moment or two. She flies toward me rapidly, her feet no longer touching ground. Sinder rips the nail from my fingers; I close my eyes in fear of what she'll do. She stabs it into my temple viciously. Though I feel the puncture, it's only a deep pressure, no pain. The minute the nail stops sliding in, I lift my eyelids to see that I'm in another place completely.

I look around to see a world larger than my own, a very scary giant world. I sit in a dark room, only four white walls around me. The walls are dingy and splattered with crimson stains, looking as though they're dried blood. The corners of the room hold webs that house spiders and their eggs. The temperature in the room is high, a small sweat beading on my forehead. A single round fluorescent light hangs from the ceiling, lone and dim. Where am I? I stand, studying my surroundings. A bright doorway interrupts the gloom of the blood-spattered walls. Everything beyond it appears so happy as opposed to everything in this unpleasant room. I must go there. It takes all of my energy simply to stand, my body shaking, my muscles aching, the amount of sweat on my face increasing. I finally lift my body from the dusty, mud-caked ground, my head spinning. I stumble backward, steadying myself. I take one step, almost tumbling forward as well. I look down to what made me trip to see that I have very small feet, so much so that they look severed. The shoes on my feet look two sizes too big. I can only squint at the shoe, for kneeling to it will take too much energy. The shoes look familiar, but for the life of me, I can't remember where I've seen them before.

I attempt to walk in the shoes again, but fail miserably. I slide them off, thinking nothing of it and continuing to walk. The light, the light, must get out of this dark, depressing room. There seems to be a barrier around the room, as if it traps happy souls inside and forces them melancholy, sometimes lower than that. The more I think of my surroundings, the more I want to leave this place. I run for only a second, stopping to take deep, gasping breaths. I can only walk, hoping that once I reach the door, the force lurking over this room will let me out. I step to the doorway, staring out into what appears to be a hallway. It seems normal enough, bright off-white paint on the walls, painted roses lining the top and bottom of them. I walk through the door with ease, nothing keeping me in that metaphysical prison. A small sound falls to my ears, light and feminine, a woman's voice.

I turn to the right to follow the sound, stepping slowly down the hallway. As I walk down the light corridor I catch a glimpse of a mirror to my right, I stop almost immediately. I notice something unusual about myself. What it shows me can't possibly be right, but can a mirror lie? Or only tell us the grave truth? I stare, eyeing myself up and down in the reflective glass. I'm only about three feet tall, appearing to be about nine years old. My skin is pale, bruises painting my face. The colour of my eyes is black, along with my long, straight hair that leads down to my waist. Beautiful as it is, it holds many tangles. I wear a dress that any little girl would wear on a holiday, buttoned in the front from the waist up, fluffed out from the waist down, my puffed, round sleeves covering my shoulders. I'm very thin, my cheekbones too defined for a girl of the age I seem to be, my arms so thin, they would be broken off if I were shaken hard enough. My legs are terribly scrawny, my stockings drooping on me. I am the little girl, the ghostly little girl from the apple.

My eyes widen to saucers. I hear a scream, shaking myself out of my trance, I rush to find the source of the voice. There is a door at the end of the hall on my left. I peek around the corner, seeing a woman, in her twenties, tears streaming down her face. Her hair is a black mess tangled around her head, yet somehow it falls gracefully to frame her face. Her cheeks are the lightest shade of red, the rest of her white as a pearl and trembling like a leaf. She has large black eyes staring through me between long eyelashes. I try not to fixate myself with the black abyss of her eyes. Her lips are full and match the color of her skin. Her nose is slender, but not pointed at the end, rounded. She has a curvy figure to top it off. A look of horror crosses her face and she wails at the sight of me. She crouches into the corner of the room, holding up her hands to hold off something that only her eyes can see. I wonder for a moment if this house did hold an evil presence, or if she just simply isn't sane.

A large man shoves me out of the way, causing me to slam against the wall at the end of the hall,

"Sinder! Don't just stand there! Help your mother!" He shouts. He's a big man, tall, with muscular arms, but he's round in the middle. His eyes are close together, coloured brown. His nose is big and flat. His fat cheeks droop. His head shines in the light of the room, no hair to cover it. He grips both of her upper arms, lifting her from the floor. He throws her on the bed, crawling on top of her legs and sitting on them to keep her from kicking. He grips her wrists, slamming them to either side of her and holding them down. "There's nothing there!" He screams in her fear-stricken face, "Honey! There's nothing there!" His screeching echoes through my mind. I suppose she's not sane. As she stills herself, he lifts from her. From his words, I can only assume he's my father. Mother looks at me, glaring. She lifts a slow, shaking finger at me.

"Demon child!" She spits, "Satan child!" Her glare bears through me. I back away slowly, trying to move from her view and the point of her accusing finger. It gives me guilt for something I did not do. I sit patiently near the doorframe and safely out of sight, waiting for Father to return from the room. He steps slowly from the doorway, slamming the door behind him. He turns his angry eyes to me, I notice a small hint of hostility deep in the back of his gaze.

"Next time your mother has another one of her episodes, you get off your lazy butt and help!" He screams at me,

"Yes, Father." I whimper, my voice reminding me of those peaceful silverbells.

"Now come on." He growls, grabbing a handful of my hair. He gives one good yank, causing me to fall to the floor. He drags me across the ground, I feel the wooden panel floor below scraping my cheek. I'm more than sure of a few splinters and gashes in the side of my face with each bump and broken board I hit. The scraping continues until we reach tile. The cold of the new ground texture stings the sores on my cheek. The man releases my hair, stepping to some strange metal high-chair. It's rusted and looks unstable. I strain to lift myself, grimacing at the blood that drags along the floor and stains the front of my dress. "You'll be fine." Father states lifting me from the floor by my wrists, slamming me into the creepy high-chair. He smashes me down into it, causing my crotch to bang against the metal of the part between the legs that keeps little children from sliding out. This shouldn't hurt a girl, but it hit so damn hard. I yelp out in agony. "Shut up!" Father demands, it is then that I notice two leather straps on either arm of the chair. Father grips them, making my eyes widen. He forces my arm to that of the chair's and pulls the strap over my wrist, me fighting him every step of the way. He finally gets my arm down, strapping it in and pulling the leather so hard that I feel it cut into my wrists. My arm quickly becomes numb as the circulation stops. I see the blood running down the arms of the chair. He does so with my other arm as well. I kick wildly, screaming prayers and bucking against the metal of the high-chair. "Shut the fuck up!" Father shouts, lifting his fist high above his head. He brings it down and I can only close my eyes, turning away to the on-coming blow. I feel his dense knuckles smash into the side of my face. A pop echoes through my head, my jaw falling limp on the left side. The pain surges from my broken jaw, pumping through the rest of my head and giving me a migraine. I wince, crying out and jolting from the pain it causes me. Tears now fall freely from my eyes, the salt stinging the large gash on the side of my face. It burns so badly, I feel as though it should be sizzling. The saltwater pours over the big bleeding sore, the salt gathering in the holes underneath and around the splinters. I opened my eyes just a bit, everything blurred by tears.

"I hate you!" I scream, my voice missing a few syllables because of all the intense agony pouring over my head entirely. Father's face straightens, his body relaxing.

"W-what did you say?" He stumbles, looking appalled. I only stare at him for a moment, scrutinizing his body language to decipher his next moves. Is he actually affected by the comment? Does it hurt him emotionally?

"I hate you." I state calmly to see what he'll do next. His face falls again. His body tightens, his fists clenching. My eyes widen, oh, Jesus save me! He lifts his foot, throwing it forward into a leg of the large metal high-chair. It stumbles forward, back, then forward again, then to the floor. I close my eyes by instinct. I feel the chair hit the floor below me before my head crashes down after it. A large ache pulses through my head and a high-pitched screech rings in my ears. I look around, seeing blood pool around me. No doubt it's cracked open. I feel myself growing weary, knowing that soon I'll pass out. Blood was leaking from my head, my cheek, and my wrists. If I pass out, I won't wake up. My eyelids grow heavy, I fight them for control. Then, darkness lays over my eyes and it's not my eyelids. I suppose I blacked out, but maybe not.

My eyes remain closed, but I gain all movement and sense back in my body. A tingling sensation pours over me, filling my veins with what feels like cold splashes of white light and tickling my nerves like feathers. The pain all disappears, my cheek, my head, my wrists, all of it gone. I lift my hand and stroke my cheek, so soft it is, no longer bloody and lumpy. When I get control over my eyelids, I lift them to see my new surroundings.