Upon first light…

Troubled by moments of the previous night that scattered about his mind, Frank stumbled to his feet. Never before had he experienced such lucid nightmares.

The chase through the woods, the screaming, wretched sounds, and the look in her petrified eyes: it was all he could remember.

He fumbled around the bedroom floor for his jeans. Found them. The crumpled fag packet held just two poor remaining souls, just like the dream.

His mind skipped an image. Dropping fag ends onto the floor, staring at the a bloodied torso. Torn blouse just teasing out the bottom of her left breast.

Frank shook his head to release the image as he searched for his lighter. Finding it in the other pocket on foot his jeans, he drew it up to try and light the fag, but his trembling hands slipped over tiny wheel.

Why was is so wet?

The dawn winter light was barely penetrating his bedroom curtains and his mind was still a fog.

The lighter should have been yellow. It was slick with crimson.

He paused. So did his heart. Frank scanned his bedroom floor for signs of answers. He could see his shoes, his jeans, his jacket. He turned towards his bed.

The duvet had been kicked off during the violence of the nightmare. The pillow and bedsheets, both supposed to be crisp white, were thrashed with dark streaks and pools.

Jet black through to muddy brown…and blood red.

That’s when he finally look down at his tee-shirt. The same pattern of putrid colour.

The lighter dropped from his hand and clattered the wooden floor. His hands began to dance a kind of angry, drunken jive. And his stomach boiled.

What had that lucid dream been?

Where was she? The girl. No. Not a girl. The whore. The stunningly hot, but beautiful innocent whore.

What had happened the night before? Images began to flash back. Unconnected. Sudden. But increasing. Until finally his ears told his mind, gave it one more sound. Another thing flash.

“No, Frank! Please.”

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