APRIL 29, 2014
SECONDARY STUDENT MAGAZINE
Nightmare
by Kamola
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I trudged down the road, alert and aware, the wind throwing dust; it swirled around me like a
cape, shadows dancing in the folds. I am alone but I am alive, defying fate, playing a dangerous
game with death. One wrong move, I’m
done. One wrong turn, I’m gone.
A murderous roar pierced through
me, in my very soul. Fear rushed through
my mind like an infection. I could feel it in
my cold, pale fingers and in my withered,
whimpering stomach. No, they’re here.
My legs jumped to life and I was
carried, faster and stronger then I have
been for days, adrenaline coursing
through every fibre of my being, pulsating
and alive. The rising heat emanating
spread through my body, colliding with
the chilly sting of the air like ink on wet
paper. My breath came out in sharp gasps, oxygen struggling to travel up my nostrils. I felt it
carving like a knife and forcing an intense discomfort down my lungs stabbing at me heart.
My heightened senses - sight, sound, feeling, hearing and smell – worked on overdrive
searching for it. Searching for the impending danger. For the monster under every child’s bed, the
demon hiding in every man’s shadow, the ghost haunting every elders’ dreams. I spun around, my
eyes stumbling over every overturned car, every breathless home and landing on the dark abyss of
an alley shrouded by dust and smoke.
The stench travelled through the sewers, so putrid and strong my eyes watered and my
eyes stung. My lungs screamed for pure oxygen or the sweet smell of lavender crushed between
my fingers on a warm summer day. They ached for the scent of fresh air mingled with cooking
bacon and eggs on the pan. My shoulders cried for the feel of human touch and my eyes pleaded
for a bright blue sky with a vibrant sun and gliding clouds. I prayed to be taken away and to dance
amongst the clouds and to be free of this place. Free to stop looking over my shoulder, looking
around every corner and through shrouded windows.
I looked down at my hands and longed for my hands. Where soft, nimble fingers should be
there were bone-like twigs smudged dirt. Callouses on every pad and flesh where there should be
skin. Nail beds nonexistent or jagged or covered with filth. In place of palms were skeletal plates,
hollow and scabbed with bright blue veins protruding through the skin, imminent against the
stark contrast of the lifeless, sickly white that occupied every inch of me ever since that day.
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