Warning : The following story contains scenes of EXTREME violence, graphic language and rape. Please be warned that this story contains material not suitable for younger readers or those affected by graphic depictions.
I was always a lucid dreamer. I could decide I wanted to fly in my dreams or ride unicorns or whatever, but there was always one thing that was persistent about my dreams; the screams. I’m not talking about someone jumping out and trying to scare me in my dreams, to be honest I can’t say that I ever had nightmares. No, it was as if there was a chorus of screaming people, thousands … no, millions of them that became the soundtrack of each and every dream I had. And even though I could control my dreams, I could never put an end to those screams.
My name is Misti and I think it’s time I told someone where those screams came from.
To try to describe the screams is like trying to describe the sounds of torment in the deepest hells. They weren’t the screams of frightened people, they were the screams of people in pain, indescribable pain.
It was several years ago that I decided I wanted to find where those dreams came from, what caused them. I was a lucid dreamer, why couldn’t I find them? And so I decided to start looking from the very edge of my dreams; the point where they fell over into nightmares.
Flying to the edge of happiness and light, I stopped and looked over the precipice. I guess I could describe it as the end of the world like the ancient people used to draw on old maps. But really it was a boundary, a cliff face in one way, but really a wall. A wall created to keep those in suffering from being able to crawl up to safe ground.
Below me there was fire. Fire so hot I thought it would melt my skin if I got any closer. It was the floor, the walls, the ceiling. It was the air and the water. Hotter than any flame, it was the burning, sulfurous heat of rage and torment.
Shielding my eyes, I allowed myself to drift closer and found that even though the flame was hot, it wasn’t bubbling my skin. Closer and closer I floated down into the flames until I could see movement. There were people in those flames. People and … something else. Something stalking them, something hunting them.
Drifting through the ribbons of crimson suffering that tried in vain to lick at my skin, I was startled by someone bursting through the fires. It was a man, a man whose skin bubbled and burned from the heat. So hot were the flames that his skin would blister. Those blisters would pop and the fluid inside would sizzle like hot oil. The raw skin underneath would sear and burn, peeling back from the muscle. But he wasn’t running from the heat.
Behind the man, a pack of broad hounds gave chase. Like the man, their skin was burned, charred and peeling back from the muscle. Their jaws were impossibly wide and filled with row after row of vicious, shark-like fangs. Their barks were the taunting laughs of psychopaths.
As the man ran, the ground burst up around him as razor sharp, red-hot stone. It carved away his legs as he ran, grinding his feet down to the bone and leaving a bloody trail of flesh and sinew for the dog-beasts to follow.
The man reached a tree, what appeared to be a safe haven from the beasts. Grabbing the trunk, the man scrambled to the lower branches as fast as his torn feet could carry him, but the leaves were falling from the tree. Like razors, they sliced his flesh, carving bleeding, red lines in his already blistered hide. The higher he tried to climb, the farther he tried to get from the beasts, the more the leaves fell, gouging his eyes and cutting his face until eventually he lost his grip.
The animals below tore at him, relishing his screams. They devoured the flesh from his living bones while the man thrashed in agony. Biting and rending, they broke open his bones to lick out the marrow until inexplicably, they were sated. Quietly, they left in search of new prey.
I stopped by the man as he lay gasping on the ground. Even as he looked up at me with his remaining eye, his skin was already healing. In the distance, the hounds had smelled their next quarry. Panicked, the healing man jumped to his feet and the hunt began anew.
One after another, I watched countless torments until I reached a wooden door surrounded by the flames. It was like the back of a club or bar and I was standing in the fire enshrouded alley. I had only to wait a moment before the next torture began.
Two demonic men kicked open the door and dragged a struggling woman out into the alley. The larger of the two held her hair in one hand and her throat in the other. She was already bruised and bleeding from her mouth and the two beasts laughed and joked about her pain.
The largest, its eyes gleaming green with acidic hate, forced the woman down to her knees, “Drank too much didn’t ya?” it asked.
“Check it out,” the other said, “Bitch wants it, she’s asking for it.”
Abruptly, the first punched the woman in her stomach with enough force to lift her off the ground. The blow caused the woman to convulse and heave and the creature pushed her head down so she could vomit onto the ground.
Holding her hair with its hand, it laughed, “Oops, looks like it’s coming up, let’s get that back in there!”
As the larger beast grabbed handfuls of the vomit and forced them into her mouth the smaller one tore its pants off. Violently, it forced itself into her, tearing her vagina as it laughed and thrust. The woman could only moan pitifully while the first creature forced handful after handful of vomit into her mouth causing her to regurgitate the filth each time. The second jerked out handfuls of the woman’s hair while it forced itself into her deeper and harder each time.
“You hear that?” the rapist laughed, “Bitch is loving it!”
I’m not sure what came over me. I just … knew. I knew that I could help this one where I couldn’t help the man before. So I stepped up to the rape.
Reverently, the beasts withdrew from me and averted their hellish green eyes. Like whipped dogs, they backed away and let me put out my hand to the woman. Terrified and in agonizing pain, the woman took my hand and I helped her stand. Saying nothing to her, I changed the dreamscape around us.
It was dark and quiet. The woman was clean and uninjured. We were in a bedroom and a couple was in the bed.
“Do good,” I whispered to the woman and then motioned to the couple in the bed.
Smiling, she faded like a mist into the couple’s embrace just as a whimsical thought struck my mind. Before I awoke myself, I decided to whisper a name in the couple’s ears.
* * *
I’ve been back more times than I can count and each time I bring one person out with me, but that first will always be the most special. I heard on the news the other day that Hanna’s Law passed Congress; the most radical and sweeping changes in history for rape victims and their attackers. All because a seven-year-old girl named Hanna wouldn’t stop pestering her Senator for change.
Author’s Note: Women aren’t bitches … they aren’t asking for it. You don’t have to come back from hell to do something about violence against women.