Post by DartxNi on Sept 5, 2006 0:01:35 GMT -5
Rated M for violence
I dreamt I was a vampire in Hell. I was a creature of the dark, feeding upon the blood of lesser demons. In the dark lurked an evil beyond my evil. Always was the choice between a violent life and a violent death. Every moment I lived with the terror of the hunted. Every moment I survived by the thrill of the hunt.
The hunt was no grand triumphant game of horns and drums. My tools were my teeth and my nails, barely sufficient for the task. Most of the time I spent scrambling across a pitch-black floor for beasts that bled too little for the time it took to track them, the biting of which filled my mouth with choking feathers and stringy putrid meat. But the need for blood- the need for life- drove me to survive on such barely sufficient game.
And then one day I saw it, skulking there in the dark beyond the edges of my fire. It was a hellhound. The hounds of hell prey upon that which I prey, and fear that which I fear, yet never should we meet but both be wary, for I knew that as the blood of the hounds was sweetest to my taste, the meat of my bones was sweetest to the hound.
I gestured to my fellows, for companions I did have, of nature similar to me. They drew back in fear, for cowardice is a weakness we all shared, but I stood up, knowing that our hunts had not been prosperous. Without the dog’s red blood, one of us would die, probably by the teeth of a brother. When the choice is between a violent life and a violent death, the only thing for certain is the violence.
I took one step beyond the edge of the fire and in that second the hound leaped at me, bowling me over the ledge we had encamped upon into the darker caverns below. Only by reflex I thrust my arms outward and caught its shoulders, saving myself from certain death. Not that my life was now any more certain.
I struggled there beneath the beast, holding its head and snapping teeth at arms length, the strength in my arms the only thing between my life and my death. But I had strong arms and strong hands and sharp claws and those might save me. In a gamble, for a fraction of a second I let go of the dog’s heaving chest. In the next fraction, the dog’s teeth found my neck. Before that second had ended, my hands found the dog’s jaw.
I pried my fingers between its teeth and opened the lever of its mouth, too wide. With a crack and a scream the dog’s jaw broke. I used that time to throw the heavy beast off me. It landed in the darker darkness where I couldn’t see it. I only heard it whimpering.
I used the uneven surfaces of the wall to pull myself up. The hound’s teeth were what had had me most concerned, reaching as they were for the vein where my lifeblood flowed, but the hound had claws as sharp as mine, and they had rent me horribly. On wobbly legs I staggered to where the dog lay. I stomped once on its head, bringing an end to its pitiful whining, then stumbled up the grade to where my cousins in blood awaited. Two of them carried the carcass behind me. Blood transmits life, and the hound's blood quickly healed the gouges I had suffered.
Then out of the darkness came two figures, two girls, twins as pale as the white nightgowns they both wore. They asked for my protection. And I gave it, as much as that turned out to be worth.
The dream continued on, becoming only more terrifying as it lingered. In the dream I was faced with choices between my life and the lives of others, and I always chose survival over heroism. As a consequence, I was haunted by the ghosts of the dead.
How do you find the moral of a dream? More chaotic than a story, our dreams are metaphors for life dredged from deep within our psyches. They are as individual to us as our souls. In telling you my dream I ask not for interpretation, nor do I ask for consolation. I only tell you because the telling of our dreams is a tradition as old as time. For the sake of story I changed the details of the dream, but don’t ask my what they were for by the time I write this, the dream itself has faded from my mind and I have only these words and a few fleeting images.
Terror in the darkness. The sound of bone cracking. A ghost’s sad eyes.
A Darker Darkness
A Dream
By Dartxni
A Dream
By Dartxni
I dreamt I was a vampire in Hell. I was a creature of the dark, feeding upon the blood of lesser demons. In the dark lurked an evil beyond my evil. Always was the choice between a violent life and a violent death. Every moment I lived with the terror of the hunted. Every moment I survived by the thrill of the hunt.
The hunt was no grand triumphant game of horns and drums. My tools were my teeth and my nails, barely sufficient for the task. Most of the time I spent scrambling across a pitch-black floor for beasts that bled too little for the time it took to track them, the biting of which filled my mouth with choking feathers and stringy putrid meat. But the need for blood- the need for life- drove me to survive on such barely sufficient game.
And then one day I saw it, skulking there in the dark beyond the edges of my fire. It was a hellhound. The hounds of hell prey upon that which I prey, and fear that which I fear, yet never should we meet but both be wary, for I knew that as the blood of the hounds was sweetest to my taste, the meat of my bones was sweetest to the hound.
I gestured to my fellows, for companions I did have, of nature similar to me. They drew back in fear, for cowardice is a weakness we all shared, but I stood up, knowing that our hunts had not been prosperous. Without the dog’s red blood, one of us would die, probably by the teeth of a brother. When the choice is between a violent life and a violent death, the only thing for certain is the violence.
I took one step beyond the edge of the fire and in that second the hound leaped at me, bowling me over the ledge we had encamped upon into the darker caverns below. Only by reflex I thrust my arms outward and caught its shoulders, saving myself from certain death. Not that my life was now any more certain.
I struggled there beneath the beast, holding its head and snapping teeth at arms length, the strength in my arms the only thing between my life and my death. But I had strong arms and strong hands and sharp claws and those might save me. In a gamble, for a fraction of a second I let go of the dog’s heaving chest. In the next fraction, the dog’s teeth found my neck. Before that second had ended, my hands found the dog’s jaw.
I pried my fingers between its teeth and opened the lever of its mouth, too wide. With a crack and a scream the dog’s jaw broke. I used that time to throw the heavy beast off me. It landed in the darker darkness where I couldn’t see it. I only heard it whimpering.
I used the uneven surfaces of the wall to pull myself up. The hound’s teeth were what had had me most concerned, reaching as they were for the vein where my lifeblood flowed, but the hound had claws as sharp as mine, and they had rent me horribly. On wobbly legs I staggered to where the dog lay. I stomped once on its head, bringing an end to its pitiful whining, then stumbled up the grade to where my cousins in blood awaited. Two of them carried the carcass behind me. Blood transmits life, and the hound's blood quickly healed the gouges I had suffered.
Then out of the darkness came two figures, two girls, twins as pale as the white nightgowns they both wore. They asked for my protection. And I gave it, as much as that turned out to be worth.
The dream continued on, becoming only more terrifying as it lingered. In the dream I was faced with choices between my life and the lives of others, and I always chose survival over heroism. As a consequence, I was haunted by the ghosts of the dead.
How do you find the moral of a dream? More chaotic than a story, our dreams are metaphors for life dredged from deep within our psyches. They are as individual to us as our souls. In telling you my dream I ask not for interpretation, nor do I ask for consolation. I only tell you because the telling of our dreams is a tradition as old as time. For the sake of story I changed the details of the dream, but don’t ask my what they were for by the time I write this, the dream itself has faded from my mind and I have only these words and a few fleeting images.
Terror in the darkness. The sound of bone cracking. A ghost’s sad eyes.
and 
all
time for me 
echoes, hope you all are doing well 
