False Healer

Somehow I knew I was dreaming, yet I didn’t because of the directions the dream was going. The voice that I describe the details in become the ornate and the pinpointing detail, the voice in the dream had a narration to it. It described the events in the eyes and mind when they see the darkness within the mind and the skies that turn a deeper shade of black. From them I knew I was dreaming, yet in the mind it didn’t seem all real. It becomes the distant thing as the dream paints a picture of something dark, the picture emotional. Of everything descending, pieces that form a puzzle when it becomes an ornate picture of something grotesque. Descending from them in the eyes that belong to mine; when they realize all that is said and described.
        In them when they become and the details that fall into place. In years that fade from the passages, and in them I knew even when I was dreaming they become the details of they described are ornate. The old –– archaic tone to what the dream brings, and from them in details that are told in years as they died. They bring about the fading years, and in the fading years therein. When they fall into a circle of madness, and from the madness fading into a darkness that falls further int the eyes as the body sleeps. Deeper when one crawls the madness within a mind lives, a madness when a mind dreams. Another voice screams as one closes in the eyes of the darkness fading.
        Described to them of what was after the memory, becoming the dream after the darkness from the skies. Though the words in the dream as they are whispered is the loudest thing told, and the archaic whispers becoming the voices in a silence. It all started within the room as it resembled a hospital room, sometime around when I was checked into there for my medical problems. The thing getting to me within the dream having to be the needles, I always despised them.
        Though dreadfully nervous it becomes when the clock grows louder, as one tries to fall asleep on a hospital bed. In a place with strange surroundings; so alien, one wouldn’t have a problem falling asleep if the exhaustion kicks in. The sight of the needle would play the huge part in the dream as the voice described as the details become the morbidly vivid. From the combination of lack of sleep and illness, the question of what plays into the mind of madness of the dreams playing into the vague details yet in that vague detail when one awakens in the hell before them. Awaking in a land of the archaic, the depths of them become an echo of the years. The tensions becoming as one hears the screams within the shadows. Each step taken becomes another step into a darkness that cannot be described in mere details. The sight of the faceless doctors leave one with a frightening notion of what they are doing when they insert the needles into one’s fingers.
        From the archaic mind it becomes a painting within a perverse sense of the word, the flames seen within the painting echo the details as seen within the dream. When everyone stares into the painting of Dorian Gray, it all becomes the beginning of all that leaves the shadow of the fake and all that fades in a memory told in years passed. After everything told had lived and died, it is the dream as it remains. Archaic times bring about the voice of an older time when one narrates the dream. It paints a picture of something really distorted and shadowed to the memory. When all that is noticed and fake, and the reality is gone. Silence was drawn from the ornate, and the tenses of the dream change from the past to the present but everything tells itself in the present sense of the word. Even down to the details of the doctor without a face and the nurses without their mouths.
        “What are you doing to me?” I would ask.
        They said nothing, all they do was insert the needles into my fingers and proceeded to draw the blood. While the blood is drawn, one sees all that becomes around them namely the patients in the other rooms screaming without end. All that is around me when the dream is described, the writer writes the dream before them. The voice resembled that of Edgar Allan Poe if he was writing a short story and I was a character in his work. The needles were as long as pencils but sharper than a scalpel. It was if Edgar Allan Poe was writing me into a story and I was merely a player of a nightmare that is told before the eyes of a man who never seen this torment. The needles being inserted into the fingers, digit by digit while they burn into the flesh. Searing the flesh and touching the bone within the fingers, though only to God I pray for it to stop with the infinite burning. The morbid fear plays on of terminal disease, all that becomes within the eyes of a fake healer.
        “Son of a bitch, take these damned needles out of my fingers; they are burning like the flames of hell,” I cussed under my breath, they said nothing.
        All they said was silence, words that were indistinct from them being the nurses didn’t have mouths. While nothing came from their mouths, the writer continued to write me into the details of the dream as the narrative played itself out. In the voice speaking as a God, the voice got louder foreshadowing an ominous beginning. Archaic in the tone, the voices as they are heard from a silence so deafening. The voices, all those damning voices become the echo of the mind when the writer narrates the being of them. The essence of the darkness living within a mind’s shadow. Beneath a dwelling horror it becomes the years when they are drawn faint.
        The picture shown within the mind of the perverse things that were done to the other patients, being they had needs about seven inches long going into their veins. In the telling, somehow, it played out into the dream when the needles went into the fingers. When the needles found their way impaling the flesh in my fingers, the blood continued to flow at a pace slowing the speed of time.
        “They are burning!” I screamed in pain.
        Those damned needles burned into my fingers as they were the prongs of hell themselves. The needles, oh how I despised the needles. More than I despise hospitals. I hated needles and the dream played into it in some way; painting a picture of something darker for the mind to dwell upon. Cathartic as it appears, from the nature of the description becomes ornate and grotesque at the same time. I felt the needles sharp points being shoved violently into the fingers and the faceless doctor saying he needed a little bit of my blood.
        “Mr. Pacione, all we need is a little of your blood, and these needles in your fingers will provide that,” the doctor said with an archaic voice. Almost if the details of the doctor inserting the needles were being documented before me.
        He commented with a few hypodermic needles in hand preparing to stick them in each of my fingers. I felt the searing pain impale the flesh with cold surgical steel. Steel impaling flesh, cold sterilized steel drawing blood from the arteries. Burning liquid in the veins as steel finds its way to touch the bone. Needles burning flesh as a form describing a grotesque display. Among the collection of needles I felt as I was some museum oddity, all the needles in my fingers and the screaming from the other rooms. The horror echoed all the other rooms as the faceless doctor visited them as well. The medical use of the horrors drawn into the dreams, and outside the windows become the fires of hell. Closer to the descending as the faceless doctors and the nurses without mouths walked around making their rounds. He spoke with an archaic voice, and the nurses spoke slightly though they did not have a mouth.
        Described therein becoming from archaic details between the mind and the doctor without the face. The beginnings of such, become the blueprint of the plot as the dream writes itself out in an archaic tone. I could not tell off hand of where he got the needles from to place into my fingers, but I knew the other needles were placed in the mouth and arms of the patients around me. All that stirs from the beginning and the dream that plays into a plot, a kind of plot becoming even more sinister as it continues to tick with the clock. From the old tone as the dream plays itself, the plot within the dream is a creation of a story of its own. In the depths of what was there, something painted so darkly as the portrait of the doctor was in my mind.
        “These needles burn, damn it –- remove them from my fingers, they are burning away at my flesh,” I grimaced in pain. One thing I despised more than hospitals were needles in my veins, I hated getting pricked with needles but believed they were a necessary evil.
        One thing that answered the question, does one feel pain within a dream. As freakish the display was, and still plays into my mind each time I set foot in a hospital. It was the dream that played out when I was in the hospital on May 9, 2004, I kept dreaming about how many times they would place the needles in my fingers and arms. The memory of the IV needle played the strongest from other times in the hospital. The details about dreams that take place in hospitals were always a haunting theme plays around them. Taken from the details and times I spent in the hospital, the details in the dream play themselves into details painting a dark picture. The dream describing the portrait of a fake healer, his diploma hanging in the office with his fabricated picture. The portrait of the doctor appears in the backdrop of the hospital; as macabre to what one is described. It was dreams such as this one shows my fear of hospitals. Words enough cannot be found to describe the horrors within the rooms of that doctor’s chamber while he makes the rounds. In the rounds he makes, a darkness following into a mind of one who has a fear of hospitals –– a despise of them.
        “Mr. Pacione, give me your arm. This will not hurt one bit,” one of the nurses spoke. Their voice was clear despite of them not having a mouth.
        Nervously I watch them place the needles within my arms as the others already burning within my fingers. My eyes watch in horror as I see the macabre display of a nightmare play themselves out before my eyes. In the needles drawn into the fingers, the burning of them become the most vivid thing within the nightmare. This burns damn it, the sadistic look upon their faces as they look upon the impaled surgical steel into meat. When the nurses inserted the needles into my arm, I fell asleep again. This time waking up in the hospital room, without any needles in my arm and squeezing the finger to stop the bleeding on my finger. It is the question of how a nightmare that vivid can be induced from exhaustion.
        I wasn’t sure of how long I was asleep but I knew the dream lasted a while; almost if it played out as a movie within my mind. The phasing in and out of consciousness played its pattern with me. A picture that dark could paint itself in the mind of a faceless doctor and nurses without their mouths. Something that vivid and perverse could play into an alien landscape called the human psyche. Within cathartic states it becomes the details of the horror within themselves, and realization of a dream as this would live within the mind. The ticking thing within a disabled mind, as it becomes a shadow of the memories past and the nightmares within the current time. The eyes when they are closed sees a darkness, a kind of darkness that draws from the demons within. The kind of demons one sees in the mind of a doctor without a face, and his nurses without mouths.
        I knew the dark atmosphere in my mind of the hospital was a dream sequence but still; hospitals gave me an uneasy notion in the back of my mind of them being the door to demise. Hospitals had always played that movie in the mind when the dream had played its course. Taken from the beginning of the dream into the details of a haunting end, the voice heard throughout the dream spoke in an old, archaic tone. Even in my sleep I saw the glowing green liquid the doctor and his mouthless nurses toted with them. Another horror played out within the dreams as the needles described burned my fingers. Even when I laid on the gurney waiting for the doctor to see me about the low blood sugar scare, the dream played out in my mind even when I was awake from the brief period of dreaming.
        “Could you breathe for me while I check our vitals, please sit up slightly,” said the nurse, “I will need a little bit of your blood.”
        I sat up slightly but felt very weak from exhaustion, as it still was in the exhaustion the dream was the strongest within the mind. From the overtired senses it would draw, in a drawing blood pattern. The dream as it plays out from the tests of blood, the despise of needles. The length of them gave me the chills, the sight of them invoked nightmares without an eternity. The very sight of a needle leaves me with a disturbed notion, a disturbing picture from the dreams –– a vivid display of the grotesque. It takes to the points somehow when the mind dreams and the surroundings around them become the backdrop for a nightmare painting a morbid shadow. The shadow cast upon the mind when the body sleeps and the landscape paints a macabre picture. Darker it paints, a madness descending from the eyes of a painting. The mental picture of the nurses without their mouths and a doctor without his face become an image of horror one cannot begin to fathom. Even when it goes all unnoticed, does one think enough?
        In the places grown from a macabre display, even the doctors who walk around with their phantom limbs. With the limbs they didn’t have, I saw them in the full detail. A sight so frightening one cannot find the words to say it. They felt the limbs but one cannot see them there; even in the dream the faceless doctor walked around without a leg. A sight so bizarre to the eyes as I watch them walk without an arm or a leg. The arm or leg which is missing is felt as it was there but it wasn’t there. Apathy of the words living within the mind when the dream plays itself out, and the images of something darker than what is there. The nightmare of what comes about when one has a despise for hospitals and needles, the things playing into the imagination. I was just merely a player in a passion play of a dark origin while the writer with his phantom limbs wrote the details in an archaic voice.
        From them in a dwindling silence; I will watch awakening from the dream once again. In the room of silence around me – surrounding. I would lay there in a darkness looking around but half awake because I’ve been too scared to fall back to sleep because of the faceless doctor greeting me again within the darker dream. The picture in the mind, the image of someone having to lose one of their limbs – I kept dreaming about what the person would see, feeling a leg or an arm but yet; it wouldn’t be there. The dream of where they’ve seen the phantom limb, I would lay there from my bed watching them amputate the person in the room next to me. Their screams and the shadows told it all. All I’ve seen was the bleeding leg from the hands of the nurses without the mouth. It was pulsing if it was still alive, yet it wasn’t part of the body it was part of. In that pulsing leg, it appeared if it was still breathing. Growing from the eyes of the fake healers; they watch and pray if it was a miracle from God.
        I knew I wasn’t asleep long within the walls of the hospital, though long enough to muster up the dream I pen here. The thoughts I had of hospitals painted into the dark evocation within the cryptical landscape. Nor what was left of the dream painted a picture I could not wall out of my mind being as vivid as it was. The time within the dream played as a period of years but time was shorter than it really was on the night of May 9, 2004. As the silhouette painted a macabre picture, the image of the needles within my fingers still run the most horrid though in reality the needles weren’t there, just the place the doctors pricked for blood to test on my blood sugar. All the nightmares played off my despise of hospitals and needles. The images within the mind become of a satanic detail, though it paints into something of what should not become shown.
        “Mr. Pacione, wake up you’re dreaming,” I heard one of the nurses say to me. The images of a dark opiate becoming within a shadow of the mind. Everything around me –– the surroundings in a darkness with everything around me with a shining light within the hospital walls. Everything seen within the walls, closing around me as the maddening inside the mind tell of everything in the dream. As one could still see the needles sticking out from the fingers, it would be the horrors of the mind playing into the strongest of the emotions. The notions I had in the dream are the same when a person suffers with phantom limb syndrome; and dwelling within the questioning mind becomes the dream of what plays into the years of when one sees a false healer. 2