Work Text
Your coffin is soft, warm and cosy. Ready to envelop a rattled body, so worn out from the terrors of the day, so eager to seek out comfort and shelter from the darkness of the night. You clamber onto the white satin sheets, position yourself in a way you find most comfortable, and close your heavy-lidded eyes. And you go to sleep. And you dream. You dream of things. You dreams of wild grass, pollen in the wind, and flowers still wet with morning dew beneath your feet. You dream of a fresh spring, splashes of water sprinting down moss-covered rocks, leading you to the noise and chatter of humankind downstream. You dream of people, a home, a community, a kingdom; so closely knit that you seem to know everyone, and everyone knows you. You dream of a march, of kingdoms against kingdoms, soldiers against soldiers, people against people. Kings with the red metal of their greedy swords lifted high, glinting in the sun; corpses upon corpses mounted in heaps; the living, dying and dead all crumbled together; the stone heads upon grass mounds, of which sheep graze on; the settling of a once restless wind, now devoid of the musty tang of iron. You dream of a weight upon your shoulders, the likes of those you have never felt before. You dream of cementing in concrete, unable to move even a muscle. You dream of a stress, a feeling that pulls you deeper, heavier than gravity itself. You dream of a black figure above you, emotionless, faceless, its body like blocks of stone, pinning yours down. You dream but your eyes are open. A scream is in order, but you find your throat dry, and gasping for air. Your finger refuses to lift, and your eyes cannot turn from the faceless stare that locks your gaze. Blink. You lift your hand, running it through cool air, free to move, unrestricted by the unknown. Your heart thumps wildly, threatening a heart attack right then and there. It vanished, and you are alone in your room. Alone and cold and very much terrified. Your breath is rapid, but slows over time. You are calm. You are alone and cold. You duck under the duvet and rest your head on the familiar cushion. But your eyes won’t shut. Your mind won’t stop thinking. Your heartbeat is slow, but deafening, and every beat seems to echo around the room. But no one except you is there to hear it. No one except you, and the figure.