Sweet Dreams

Dinasty shot up. Her skin was clammy, cold. Her heartbeat was rapid, and her breathing was ragged. The dream had been terrible. She had been walking in wonderland, playing Alice, but when she entered the tree to follow the rabbit, she found herself in a sort of graveyard. The ngiht was dark, and there was fog rolling warningly over the ground, spiraling about the headstones that stuck out of the grey smokey ocean. Her clothing had changed, too. It was torn and tattered, and seemed to have been burried for a month or so. 1

As she walked, she stepped on something. It squished. When she looked down, all she could see was the fog reflecting on a liquid. From the stench that was rising, she guessed it was blood. With a gasp, she turns to run, and falls into a pit. Six feet deep. Panting, she started to cry. Then there was shuffling, people walking. One of them jumped down to her. Looking over, Dinasty noticed it was not help that had come for her. She realized it when the blade shone in the pale moonlight. Eyes of red glowed sharpley, and something came down on her skull, causing a large cracking sound to erupt in her mind. There was another one, witha  shovel. Now on her knees, she looked helplessly up to the knife, stars dotting infront of her eyes of many colors. Orange ones. green ones. Blue ones. White ones. Red ones. Lots of red ones. They seeme to blot out the rest of them, like the liquid she had seen had flowed over the ground. And then pain. Sharp pains started exploding in her chest and stomach as ripping sounds occured, and the feeling of flesh being tord occured. Then she had woken up.2

She sighs, thinking back on the dream. But as she sighs, she feels pain in her head, her stomach, her chest. Dinasty looks down at her bed. Her once white sheets are red, and wet. Pushing them off in fright, she sees the tattered Alice dress, the stockings, her shoes. Slowly, she feels her head with one hand. It was wet. Pulling her hand back, she sees the red, sticky, warm. The tears roll down her cheeks, and she looks at her body. Stabbed, and broken, and knife is beside her bed, bloody, adn the shovel beneathe it. She had done this to herself. Laying down, she cries, and slowly dies, passing on back tot he graveyard's realm, only this time, the nitemare will no longer be a dream.3