Chapter One - Spiders

Spiders.
Everywhere.
Crawling. Squirming. Shrieking. Shrieking? Yes, they were.  They were over the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling, piles and piles, layers and layers. They were rising from a small pit in the ground, upwards and upwards. Each of them slowly dying as mounds of them built up, squashing the smaller ones. In the corner, a massive mother spider, legs spindly and hairy, sharp pincers like knives, eight large eyes glinting in the night. Why was it always the eyes that scared me so much? It was also shrieking into my face, intimidating, warning me. What was that? A scream, a petrified scream, like cutlery scraping against china, like nothing could compare. It sounded inhuman, nothing so bad as that could come from a human could it? It was never ending. Where was it coming from? It was near, too near, like it was coming from, me. It was, it was coming from me. I never knew that someone usually so quiet like me could make such a piercing and fatal scream. Other noises, shouts, pleads, were hanging to every other noise possible. There was a blurry figure, it was moving, I'm not sure what it was doing. The noise built up like a hurricane, swirling, surrounding, covering, masking every other sense I had. The black of the night once again surrounded me, cloaked me, made me somewhat safe from the horrors I saw.

*darkness* 

Light.
I see light. Finally it's morning. The sun is streaming in, shining through my fingerprint stained windows, which showed a cloudless, hot and very summery looking day.

Which one was it last night? Ah yeah, the spiders again. I wished that one wasn't so often. It's like my stupid brain just decides to broadcast all my worst fears at the time I'm most vunerable. But I guess I'm meant to be used to them by now. My terrors. I've had them for what seems like my whole life. I was diagnosed with them when I was around seven when they first started appearing. My father (who now doesn't live with me anymore) thought that it was just because I am  nervous, shy and generally, easily scared. But my mother still had her doubts so we went to the hospital clinic. They asked about my sleeping patterns, how often I have dreams and nightmares, my diet, past health issues/trauma, all that jazz. They casually diagnosed me with night terrors. I did some research on them (considering the doctor didn't actually tell us a whole lot about them and didn't really look into what I was going through) and it's basically when you are supposed to go into the next sleep phase you normally do but the child instead becomes agitated and frightened, causing a terror. Notice how I say child? Yeah, it's only meant to be children who suffer from them. I'm 14 now, I've had the terrors for 7 years and I'm still not over them. You are meant to just get over them eventually as you go into you teens and adulthood, but apparently that's not true with me. Also the child is not meant to remember what goes on in the terror but apparently I do that as well. Meh, does it really matter? Anyway, even though I completely despise my terrors, I find them kind of interesting. I know, you're probably thinking about how emo and weird I am and how weird it is that it I love the night and how I love my condition, but NO, you are wrong. I don't think any of those things. I'm not emo, I'm not that weird, I definitely don't love the night and I definitely don't love my condition. It's just that it's kind of cool how I'm different, and what kind of person isn't even a little bit intrigued by the process of sleep and the night? Call me weird, call me whatever you want, but I don't really care.

So yeah, as I was saying, I got these terrors and now I'm pretty much stuck with them. If you think about it, it must be a horrible thing for a parent to have to go through. To see your child screaming and kicking at something that isn't there, absolutely terrified of something that is in their head, and all the poor parent can do is try and calm their child down and wait for it to pass over. Then again, it's not exactly a good idea to try and talk to me during a terror. My mother  would know that all too well. I have thought that she was part of the terror and I've even tried to attack her. What kind of deal is that? You see your child go through all of this terror, and when you try to help, they think that you are the thing that is causing all of the fear in their mind, when you are trying to help! It's horrible, I feel so sorry for my mother, she is always so nice about my terrors. I remember that my mother used to have to try and force me to go to bed, I was that scared of the terrors, I used to lock myself away for hours in my home's cramped broom closet and tell myself that I would never go out, that I wouldn't sleep, I couldn't, the monsters would come back. Nowadays I'm not scared of going to sleep or having my terrors. When I learnt more about my terrors, I learnt that there wasn't any point in trying to  avoid sleeping. I stopped calling them monsters. Because you can run from a monster, you can sprint and get away from it and possibly save yourself, but my terrors are different. I now know that I can never run away from my terrors, because no-one can really save me from what's in my head, can they?

Author's Note

What do you think of the long descriptions? Are they too long and should I just move on in the story, or are they good at they are? Thanks :)