《The Collections (Short Stories)》Dear Journal IV

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November 26th, 2017

Dear Journal,

I did it. I crushed the demon that had terrorized me for well over a month. The dream began outside my house at dusk. I inspected the window that led to my supposed bedroom, and there he sat. He pointed at me endlessly, tormenting me, creeping me out. The hairs on my body rose at the sight of him. The sky was holding the dark clouds, something that seemed to be repeated throughout these nightmares. They played my favorite song of nature.

I progressed into the house that was claimed to be mine. The layout was flawed, though. I found a kitchen that did not resemble mine at all, but I grabbed a knife that was placed on the marble counter. I saw my reflection through the shine that the knife displayed, as if it was polished for me.

I followed the hallway to the stairs that led to the room. They appeared to have stretched eternally, and each step created a creak within the floorboards. I walked up for miles before I arrived at the top, thunder roared through the stars that twirled in the sky.

The hallway was dim, empty. Nothing but a single photo hung crooked on the white and brown wallpaper. It was me and my father from years ago. I took the photo and smashed it to the ground, glass splintered at my feet. I was not going to grant him the power to keep taunting me.

There was a doorway to my right, the door was ajar, and a deep musky darkness crept from the crack. I opened it more, and there he was. He stood in front of the window, pointing at me. He dropped the finger and reached for his back, but I was not going to let him grab the knife this time. I lunged forward, plunging my weapon right into his heart. He did not have the time to force my eyes awake. I twisted the knife deep, until I no longer saw the red heart beat any longer.

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After watching his body drop to the ground, I stared at his blood seep through and admired my work. I forced myself awake soon after, grateful that he cannot hurt any other victims inside my head. It was finally over.

It was no surprise that I was not in the comforts of my own bed, but rather standing in my father's room. It took my brain some time to regain full collection of its thoughts and perceive reality. My eyes took in the blood that was splattered on my father's white bed sheets. Even in the dullness, I could make out the lifeless body that laid on top of the stained sheets.

I peered down at my quivering hands, letting go of the object I held. I heard the metal clang against my father's wood floor. A knife with a brown handle laid on the wood. Its sharp edges were covered in the dark red liquid. I could make out the peaceful rain pouring outside, tapping on the window as if to say hello. Flashes of lightning lit up the room for mere seconds, and the thunder was hungry in the distance.

I dragged my finger along the blood sodden sheets and put it in my mouth. The bitter taste of fresh blood danced on my taste buds. I sat on my father's bed with his corpse behind me. Writing this last entry to the sound of sirens on the horizon, as the red liquid drips from my finger onto the bloody pages.

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