The Haunting Gaze
I know they’re watching. I feel it across my whole body as if there’s an electric current connecting me to their gaze. Their eyes stroke over my skin, they’re waiting. Waiting to attack, enjoying the view of my bare body, but I can’t move.
I want to. I want to grab my knife and attack, but moving isn’t possible. I’m stuck draped over my arm chair, one leg more extended than the other, toe pointing towards the knife I want to use. My head is bent back, supported by my arms as if I’m a statue.
All that exists is that haunting gaze I feel, but can’t see. One twitch of my toe will call to them like a scream in the night, breaking the silence and summoning every bad-intention-fueled person to capitalize on the carnage.
Murder would be kinder than the watching, as if I’m a creature under a microscope, every breath being noted, every thought on display and there’s no escape. I see the inky darkness encroaching. It’s a matter of time before it slips over me too.
The knife is too far away and if I do move, the goblins will eat me. They’ll revel in my flesh until all that’s left of me is bones and an airy memory that will coast on a breeze until it’s nothing at all.
Something chills my body, the promise of death, but my eyes open wide and I flounder.
Waking Terror
I pant as I push myself up in the tub. Looking around, I expect the watcher, the goblins, to slink under the door as if they’re smoke itself. They’ll invade my bathroom and rip me to pieces until I am nothing but soup in my tub because I moved.
But there’s nothing but the sound of water dripping from the faucet, creating a beat that’s immediately ruined when the sink starts dripping too.
Groaning, I rest my arm on the lip of the tub, then rest my head on my arm. My eyes stay on the door, narrowed.
“Stay awake. Stay awake. Don’t slip back in,” I order myself as my legs move. I push off the edge of the tub and curl up in the water. The door can’t see me at this angle, the window can’t see me, and neither can the mirror. I take a breath as I touch my long black hair. “I’m awake. I hear the water, feel my hair … I’m alive. I’m awake. No goblins.”
It would be easier to convince myself of that specific fact if I was sure I was awake. But I’m not. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be certain.
Each nightmare feels more real than the last, as if they’re creeping into reality, swallowing it bit by bit and gulping me up along too. No matter how often I battle sleep, pricking myself with the tip of a knife, irritating a bruise that I can’t remember getting, I always slip back into the claws of exhaustion. The same claws that dig deeper and deeper into my skull, scrambling my mind until I’m able to live but can’t find the lines blurring what’s real and not real.
A Hazy Morning
An alarm goes off in my home and I stand, water charting an itchy path over my body. The beads roll over my breasts, drip along my bare thighs, plunge low on my belly as the water is a man that’s starving for my body and won’t give me a yes or no before caressing me.
Grabbing a towel marred with holes and worn patches, I dry my body and search for the intruder. My friend – forced friend due to sharing a job – told me that the alarms that are left on the edges of ShadowHaven are the one that didn’t work well enough in Neon Heights.
Not that I have anything anyone would want to steal. My canvases don’t sell on the best days, so they’re not worth the work to take them, but me … I’ve heard that there is a market for women. That we’re commodities that, in the best cases, will be turned into dolls.
That’s the reason I got the security alarm, but today, it’s not the alarm screaming at me, warning me of ghostly memories of past break ins. The alarm that’s yowling for attention is the one that reminds me that having a home requires a job, even if said home is barely enough to serve one person and inanimate pieces of art.
Slapping the alarm clock, I glower at the red lights flashing. Old tech is so often red, yet people wonder why there was such a blood lust, a lust for war, a lust for others. When red creeps in through shut eyelids to infiltrate dreams and taint them … maybe there’s a reason I dream of myself painted in red too or ruined by goblins who leave me staring through my own blood soaked eyes.
“Just be normal,” I order my wayward mind as I pop caffeine pills.
The Cafe Encounter
I’m only supposed to take two at most, but that won’t keep me awake. I double it, then flex my fingers. After pulling on my basic uniform, I take a few breaths. One eight hour shift. I’ll have plenty of coffee. I’ll be able to stay awake. Just twenty-four hours without a nightmare, twenty-four hours without worrying whether I’m real or the world is real, if something is going to hurt me.
Getting to work is a set goal, so I focus on that. Not the insidious voices crooning and calling to me from the shadowy alleys between buildings. Whether they’re nightmares or people, they’re no good for me.
Coffee is good for me. Clear orders and instructions are good for me. Everything that’s measurable, that tells me I’m here deserves my focus.
I pull the door of the coffee shop into my hip, making sure I’m awake because the world seems darker. Just clouds. Or … no. No ‘or’ is allowed, only the hum drum of a life built on mediocre hopes and half-fulfilled goals.
If I think too much, everything gets muddled. Then I can’t tell the difference between reality and … and dreams, nightmares. Whatever they’re called; I don’t want them. I just want to be normal, to be able to enjoy sleep. I just want to exist, to have sex because I enjoy it – not because it’s a way to feel awake or make sure I’m alive and real. I want to enjoy my time rather than exist in a constant state of suspicion.
So, rather than dissolve into thoughts that will tempt me into a kind of waking sleep, I take orders, try to appear friendly, talk with customers as if we’re old friends. A man walks in, lanky, skin tattooed with various colors and patterns. He sits alone. Alone is bad.
Alone is a trap. I watch him, then glance at my coworker who ignores him, as if he isn’t there. I slowly approach the tattooed, pierced man and notice his ears are elongated into tips, that his shadow is squirming. My throat tightens, but I clear my throat as I stand beside him.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
“Well, your highness, I think a decaf coffee sounds good,” he says, then looks at me.
This isn’t real, can’t be real. I swallow and the man cocks his head to the side. “Did you hear me … Brett? I’d like a decaf coffee. I’ll look over the menu.”
“Right. Yeah. Sorry.” I must be out of it. I must just be filling things in from my nightmares, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had the nightmare about being the Goblin Queen. A shudder rolls over my spine, a tingle that slips all the way to the small of my back.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find the same man watching me. Tipped ears is fine. I’ve seen it often. This is ShadowHaven, artists exist in every form and have plenty of canvases. That includes body modifications … but are his tattoos spreading or is he dripping with black ink?
Is his nose a little crooked and his cheeks a little too … gaunt?
His teeth a little sharp?
His eyes look all white and there are black branch-like things growing from the black ink on his body, spreading, reaching for me, trying to-
In the Goblin’s Grasp
“Brett?” Missy, my coworker says sharply.
I jump and dump coffee on myself. I clear my throat, “sorry.”
“It’s decaf, not regular. You just poured regular,” she points out.
She heads back to the kitchen to get something and I down the entire mug of hot, black coffee as quickly as I can. Clearly, I’m just close to falling asleep. Goblins aren’t real. Black ink and branches spreading is just weird shadowing. No one calls me ‘your highness’.
I walk over and pour the decaf, asking if the man wants cream or sugar, he shakes his head. “I do want the chocolate chip pancakes …” he trails off, drawing my gaze. His intense pale eyes bore into me. He grins, a feral, wicked smile that reveals all of his sharp teeth. His smile keep growing. And growing … and growing until the corners of his mouth touch his eyes as his branches grow, his ink drips. “Your highness.”
“The chocolate chip pancakes,” I whisper.
His hand strokes over mine. His fingers seem longer, blacker, more like claws, and so thin, like he’s barely more than bone. Goosebumps spread from his touch. His long nails continue stroking the back of my hand, slowly turning my hand to the side so one long nail strokes along my palm even though my fingers are curled slightly.
“This isn’t real, you know that, right?”
“What?” I ask, my voice shaking on just one word.
“Reality is just an interpretation, but you’re special Brett. I see it in your eyes. What you pain, what you dream, it feels more real for a reason. You see through the cracks, you see …” his voice keeps going in and out, softening until I realize I’m leaning closer, in biting distance.
I meet his eyes and he looks confused. “Did you hear me?”
“I um … sorry.”
“I said, when you get off, there’s a nice clean, art-filled alley right outside and we can have plenty of fun,” he states slowly, as if my head is empty. “You don’t have to worry about understanding what I say then. Words won’t matter.”
“Well if you’re having decaf, you might not be up enough for me,” I say with the sauciest smile I can manage.
He groans. “My own Goblin Queen tempting me.”
The word makes my shoulders bunch around my ears. I can’t do this. I can’t interact with people today. I don’t know if I’m asleep or if the shadows are stretching, if all the sounds around me are growing. In the bubbling coffee, I hear muffled moans, dull banging on doors and windows.
The pleas for ‘our queen’ over and over again.
I give the man’s order to our cook, then set the pot of coffee back on the warmer. My hands are soaked with the man’s black ink. I look over my uniform, there’s ink and blood splattered all over me, deep red and black, warm, almost burning through my ashy, dry flesh.
I shudder as I turn my hands over, trying to wipe my hands on my apron again and again.
Turning around, there are only corpses in the coffee shop. People slumped over with their utensils sticking out of them. The couple that were all over each other are impaled with knives, forced to stay together even in the afterlife. When her head falls back, like she’s looking at me, I see a fork has been forced through the back of her head and is now resting on her tongue.
Missy is laying on the goblin’s table as he rips open her belly, his branches spreading even wider, trembling with delight. He shoves handfuls of her insides into his too-big smile. He looks at me with a special shine in his eyes. “My queen, you never fail to feed us. Always take such good care of us. You’re the best of us.”
A Frenzied Escape
I run to the bathroom and throw up, holding my black hair away from my face as I vomit up coffee and what’s left of my caffeine pills. Once I’m reduced to coughing and crying, my throat burning, eyes so fuzzy that I don’t have to see anything I don’t want to hear, someone starts banging on the door.
Yelping, I try to curl up under the dingy, spray painted sink, pressing my back to the wall even as something or someone tugs my hair. Maybe it’s the wall. Maybe everything I think is real isn’t. Maybe that’s why I’m paranoid, why I can’t stop the waking nightmares, can’t ever clean my hands of blood or ink for long. Someone bangs on the door again, tries the handle, shaking it fiercely, but I can’t get out, won’t get out.
I run the water and yell, “One minute!!”.
“Are you okay?” Missy asks.
She’s a zombie. I can already hear the squish of her organs sloshing to the ground, painting the dusty floors in shades of red that no human is meant to see. I have to run. That’s the only option. I need to escape and I won’t get another chance.
Taking a breath, I walk to the door, jerk it open, then push against Missy. I sprint out of the coffee shop, not stopping for anyone or anything. The sun seems to be dark, a memory of light in the sky barely casting a halo of pale white light over the world which just elongates shadows and makes buildings shift.
Everyone has their eyes on me, as if they’re accusing me, worshiping me from a distance, waiting to take their bite out of me or beg me for a feast. One or the other, but I don’t want either! I’m not special. I’m a person. I’m a person who wants to sleep, who wants to be clean, who wants to know real and not real.
By the time I get to my apartment, dingy, with sighing windows and a draft that keeps me company like a ghost, my legs are shaking. The paintings that surround me keep blinking, shifting, trying to pull themselves free from the canvases even though they leave their skins behind.
Seeking Solace
The bathroom!
Showers are safe. Baths are safe. So I shut my eyes and grope along my pocked walls, using the marks like a page of brail to get me to the bathroom. My nails curl in the drywall, prying more bits free to leave a better trail for next time.
I slip twice as I grope for the door, then slam it shut.
The tink, buzz, tink of my light coming on is real.
I snap the rubber band – always around my wrist – until I feel the pain. It’s sharp, punishing, real. Slowly, I open one eye, then the other. I focus on the shower head, only the shower head, not my hands.
Pulling my uniform off, I shove it deep in my hamper. I’ll burn them later. I can’t trust them. Can’t trust my own eyes, my ears … perhaps I should get rid of them. Use my nails, my claws, to rip at both until everything is quiet and dark, until my nightmares can’t hijack my senses and use them against me.
The shower sprays loudly and a few minutes later, heat fills the bathroom, choking the remaining memories of blood and carnage until they pass out, giving way to thoughtless calm. I ease into it as I welcome the scalding water over my skin. My eyes stay closed as I grope for my soap. I pour it into my hand until I feel it overflowing, slipping through my fingers. I stroke over my body, scrubbing with my nails until I can trust my eyes again.
No blood.
No red swirling down the drain, just my pink skin.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, touching the red marks I’ve left on my arms, the welts from my scratching. I kiss one of the marks. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, we just can’t let the nightmares out. They have to stay inside.”
Because they’re a threat to the world I want. ShadowHaven, the Fringe, the horror of living every day is better than the nightmares encroaching in on my existence. There are a million options better than allowing the world I know to erode and become something other, something terrifying.
Accepting Reality
“Be real,” I tell myself.
One thing always keeps me in the moment. It allows me to feel whole, to be aware that I’m alive and if nothing else, my body is real even more than hot showers. I run my hand slowly over the swell of my breast, cupping it and massaging it. I pinch my nipple and let out a soft moan as I lean back against the shower wall.
I imagine the man from earlier (his pre-goblin self) touching me, his lips rubbing across mine. It’s his hot body pressing against me, molding me against him. His hot fingers, not the water, that’s racing over my thighs and lower belly.
So I guide him where I want him, his fingers sliding between my thighs and ooh. I shudder as pleasure pulses from my core. It begs for more than the teasing brush of my fingers. My lips part and I lick my bottom lip, wishing it was the man’s tongue.
Maybe, if I had stayed, I would have ended up here with him, his cock between my legs, rubbing, teasing, before sliding inside and …. I moan and slip my fingers where I want him right now. My fingers aren’t as large, but I have control, I know how to touch myself, how to thrust my fingers in, to tap and rub my bean as I shudder and thrust against my own familiar hand.
“Yes,” I coax. “Right there … oh, just like that. Yes, yes.”
Nothing is more real than pleasure and pain. I’ve already dosed myself with pain, so now I can let pleasure wash everything else away, wear it like clothing.
Spreading my thighs wider, I moan and pant, pushing myself over the edge and into ecstasy. My legs tremble, my belly tightens, but I keep going. I’ve turned the art of masturbation into something close to torture, forcing orgasm after orgasm until I’m so exhausted I can’t think. Pleasure forces the nightmares away … at least for a while. Enough to get a few hours of sleep and stop the hallucinations, to stop myself from screaming in the sun.
Once the water chills, I end my own fun. My core keeps squeezing, as if it’s unsatisfied by my fingers or our every other day routine. Perhaps I should become a doll … maybe I was in another life.
I towel off and stand in front of my window, looking out at the city that only sees the worst in me. In my nightmares I’m the blood thirsty queen who rules over the criminal, the insane, the goblins that slink along the shadows and turn a flicking streetlight into a crime scene … only the police never come.
The doctors never help.
Insomnia and I rule hand in hand – the only fate befitting of the reluctant Goblin Queen, who wants to toss her crown.
