Nightmares

 The dark corridor loomed before me. The walls were made of stone, with a few torches a long the walls. It was one of those dreams where your on a set path through a area. I felt a warm, wet wind on my back. A low growl from behind me sent chills up my spine. Something felt distinctly, wrong, like something was trying to get me. The air around me suddenly felt hot, like someone opened a oven behind me. I began to run down the hallway, my footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. My heartbeat thundered in my chest. Sweat cascaded down my forehead, drenching my face. I felt my legs screaming, becoming heavy, like lead. But I couldn't stop. If I did, I knew I would die. That, that thing would get me and never let me go. 

"Oh dear. Someone is certainly slowing down aren't they?" a voice echoed in my head. It was like someone was stabbing a rusty knife in my brain. The pain was pure agony, but I had to keep moving. 

"Come now child. There is no shame in surrender." the voice crooned. I felt the compulsion to stop and sit down, to talk to the voice, share my deepest secrets. But I knew deep down, that if I did that, I'd be dead. It, what ever it was, would get me. Then I saw a dead end. A sheer cobblestone wall. I ran into it face first. I turned and faced the darkness, my heart hammering in my chest. If I was going to die, then I was going to die facing my killer.  The darkness blotted out each of the torches on the wall one by one, darkening the corridor. 

"I have you now boy. Give up all hope!" The darkness made a strange sound, like a thousand bees were swarming in my head. I realized it was laughter. I felt all the life in me drain out slowly, like air leaking from a popped balloon. I felt my arms and legs go limp and heavy, like they were made of lead instead of flesh and bone. The air around me heated to a thousand degrees. I felt the stones under my feet become blistered and cracked,burning my back and head. 

"You never could stop me boy. You never could." 

The darkness descended on me like a swarm of bees, covering me, biting and stinging. I fell to the ground in agony. 

"Your soul is mine!" the darkness growled. I screamed as the world faded from view.

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I woke up drenched in sweat. My sheets were tangled around my legs. I felt a sharp kick from the bunk under me. 

"Go back to sleep loser!" my cousin Troy snarled, still half asleep. 

I didn't want a confrontation, so I just rolled over and pretended to be asleep. I had been having the same dream for a month now, ever sense my sixteenth birthday two weeks ago. The same darkness monster, same stone corridor. And the same feeling for dread, like that thing was trying to get me for real, not just in the dream. But that was impossible. I turned over, trying carefully not to wake up Troy. I still had a few hours before I had to get ready for school so I decided to try and write. 

My aunt and uncle hated writing and tried to discourage it, but I had a secret storage area in the hole in the ceiling above my bunk. We lived in a double wide trailer with three bedrooms. One was for my cousin and I. The other two were for my two girl cousins, Mari and Tracy and my aunt and uncle. In the center was the living room and kitchen. I yawned. I thought about writing, but my eyelids grew heavy. The writing could wait until Study Hall in the morning. I closed my eyes and fell asleep. 

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I felt the quilt being yanked off of me. Cold air assaulted my body. My skin raised into goose pimples. 

"Get up boy!" Aunt Sofia shouted at me. "It's six o' clock and the weeds need to be picked in the backyard!" 

I struggled to wake up and climb down the ladder. My aunt wasn't the person you kept waiting. I carefully navigated through the empty energy drink can, chip bag 'carpet' that my cousin left on the floor. His mom and dad always blamed the mess on me, Tyler, the kid who never got a break.  According to my aunt, my mother's sister, my dad was a Native American park ranger from Alaska. He met my mom who was a reporter from the New York Times. Shortly after my birth, they were killed in a car accident. That was all that she told me. I never asked any more questions. With my aunt, the rule was 'don't ask, and you shall not receive.' She ran the house hold with an iron fist, in some cases quite literally. She never hit me or my cousins, but she came close. Usually, all the blame was put on me. I didn't know why I was always the one to do the chores or walk the dogs but I got used to it. It was just something that I had to do, no questions asked. 

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My jeans were caked in mud and wet with dew by the time the sun came up. Well, if you could call it a sunrise if the clouds were visible. That's Washington state people. 

I heard the squeak of the screen door.

"Get inside, you need to clean up." my uncle grunted. He slammed the door without even saying good morning. That was actually meant he was in a good mood, usually he'd grab me by the front of the shirt and punch me in the cheek. 

'It'll give the boy character!' he'd say, usually drunk. Even my aunt would get mad at him. She even decked him so hard one time, he hit his head on the kitchen counter and blacked out! But he and Trey would often find ways to make my life awful, typically for fun, like putting bees in my backpack or a snake in my bed. I hate to say this but if I could, I would find a way to make them pay. He was a pioneer in the field of sitting around the house and doing nothing. He claimed to have a internet job, but that was a obvious lie. We didn't even have a computer, let alone internet. My aunt was the breadwinner in the house. 

I trudged up to the backdoor and slipped off the worn work boots, leaving my feet in a pair of threadbare socks that had several holes in the heel and toe. I opened the door and entered the kitchen. The smell of cooking bacon assaulted my nose. We hardly had bacon, usually on Christmas morning, and occasionally on birthdays ( with mine as the exception of course). My aunt stood at the stove with a spatula in one hand. Her real name is Sofia so I'll just called her Aunt Sofia from here on out. She's short and squat, like a toad. Her brown hair was tied up in a bun. She glanced at me as I came in. She looked me up and down criticly. 

" It's your uncle's birthday today." she said, turning back to the stove. I hated this day. Actually, I hated all of my relative's birthdays. They didn't care about me, so why should I care about them? On birthdays I was supposed to act all fake and pretend that I wasn't bullied or punched by my uncle, act like that was all a fantasy. The only ones who had never hurt me in anyway were the two girls. I guess I was kind of like their big brother. I often would sit with them when Aunt Sofia worked long hours, and Uncle Simon was drunk and passed out on the sofa. At six and seven, I was the only one who honestly and sincerely loved them, and they in return loved me back. Troy ignored them, and Uncle Simon was often so drunk he couldn't even stand. My greatest fear was that if I left, the girls would be put in danger, that no one could or would protect them. That thought alone often kept me from running away. 

I got a shower and changed into some cleaner clothes, a black t-shirt and dark blue jeans that were a little too baggy. I didn't care. As long as I had clothes I wouldn't complain. I brushed my  unruly black hair in the mirror. When it stuck back up, I gave up trying to brush it and went back into my room.  I grabbed my backpack from off the floor and slung it on my back. The living room was filled with the sounds of morning television. A news anchor was describing a funny internet video to his colleagues. My uncle was sitting in his usual spot, a old recliner in front of the TV. 

Troy sat on the sofa behind him eating a bag of nacho flavored corn chips. I rolled my eyes in disgust and went into the kitchen.  Mari and Tracy were at the kitchen table eating bacon and eggs. Aunt Sofia handed me a plate with eggs and bacon. 

"Thanks." I said. Even though she treated me like scum, I didn't feel like it was right to just take food without saying something. She nodded in reply and took two more plates into the living room. I stood and ate. I glanced at the clock. 7:30. I double checked my bag. When I made sure that I had everything, I gave each of the girls a hug. 

"You two be good OK?" I said. They both nodded and giggled. Little did I know that I wouldn't see them again for a long time.

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By the time I got to the the bus stop the weather had turned from partly cloudy to a cold wet downpour. The bus stop was packed with people, most of witch were grumpy because of the rain. I squeezed into the small booth and stood with the rest of the people. The bus rumbled up to the stop, splashing some water from a puddle onto the sidewalk. I got on board and was able to find a seat in the back, away from parents and their kids and the disgruntled business people. I yawned. It would take at least thirty minutes to get to my stop, so I decided to take a nap. I took out my ear-buds and iPod , set the alarm for thirty minutes and closed my eyes and fell asleep to the rumble of the bus.

Author's Note

Hey guys! This is my first chapter so please check back for more in the weeks to come! Rate, subscribe and vote!

Reviews

[Rory CJ Frankson]

From the 'I' perspective... is the storyteller mode. This being the choice of rendering to your reader the mode of your setting. Which I did get and felt that it is fair writing for your age Chris... can I call you Chris?

It will take time and experimentation with your subjective choice of projection, punctuation, and word choice to convey your plotted course. I think you have the talent of the storyteller, and I felt that much of your description of settings needs more presence, than feel. Your reader needs an inner development of that setting. Along with the building of your character... as in your setting, building into the players of connecting characters, that build the story. Never letting go of the setting location descriptions that your players are in.

Don't get me wrong... it's there. The beginning three paragraphs are probably the most important aspect of the whole novel, it has many things to convey to engage your reader. Yours being a nightmare... then set up for who is having the nightmare. On awaking and your cousin is a good indicator... if you were say; Adrian Carter. It would be simple introduction to say. "It isn't easy, being Adrian Carter in this household!" See... simple.

Now the chore is, as you played it out. Not easy! That and I the reader at least knows your name right off the hammer. When you get to submissions for publication, you have to grip that reader there in the first five pages, or they auto send you a rejection notice. Hang in there Christopher, it takes a life time to learn how to be a Creative Writer, and use the English language.

I feel the desire there, and hear the developing voice. Never be afraid of the re-write. That is where the real work is... when you get to that feel, and you know the presentation is just the way it should be read. As in the first, you have to be your own reader. That's the hard part, but it tells you inside when it's the way you need others to read your work.

I don't even believe in Ratings... yet here I would give you as a English teacher maybe 50%. As a fellow writer... I give you a 100% for trying and keeping the flame alive. I would read further, just to get a feel for where your story is taking me. As a writer, it is that 'I' perspective I must tell you... is the hardest to write. Much easier to be the storyteller from the outside description and through your developed characters.

In the end to tell you my friend... try those different methods, and learn what they are. A good start Christopher.

[Christopher Wells]

Thank you! And I'm 17 for future reference!

[Caleb Powell]

awesome work! Makes me feel like I'm playing amnesia the darkness decent, keep up the good work!

[Christopher Wells]

Thanks man!

[Tracey C.]

I am loving this so far! Great Job!