text: A misty, golden field of wheat, a periwinkle sky dotted with fluffy wisps of cotton. A light breeze ruffles the heads of wheat like an older brother ruffles the hair of a younger brother. Dotting this field of gold are random sparks of ruby and lilac. Rarer still are the shoots of emerald, blades and stems of support, defending the delicate petals as the mist comes to leave a chaste kiss. The sun, while it either rises or sets, as it is impossible to tell with no other landmarks visible, bathes the valley with iridescent beams of gentle beauty. There is some harshness here, as the brilliant beams cut through both mist and clouds. While surrounded by beauty and tranquility, there is an unshakable sense of dread. The stark contrast between the growing emotion, an unbridaled, rampaging beast seated in your gut, and the seemingly false sense of peace that permeates and drips off the surrounding landscape brings with it nausea. Suddenly the very earth is tilting and careening into an unforeseen oblivion, the anxiety a solid rock in your very fiber, your essence of self. All is very unwell, yourself overwrought with boiling, churning fear that rips up your insides as with hot knives. There is no peace for you here. Though you have not seen your tormentor, you know that he is here, torturing you even whilst in slumber. There is a fading glimmer of hope, perhaps tonight, you will wake before He shows himself. That you will not once again be forced to gaze on his likeness and drink the bitter cup of despair. The pain is unbearable, the dire anticipation of the evil that is certain to come draining away any semblance of vitality you once possessed. He is coming, with each step closer the life that once filled this humble place diminishes. The peace shattered, pierced in a manner that rivales the very sun. Even the light, once so warm, so inviting, has shriveled into a gray fog that clogs your nostrils, robbing you of your breath. Desperation, a clawing, frantic essence that possesses your very soul, seating itself, unbidden, into your heart. He is coming. Oh, for the sweet release of consciousness, the safety that rides the wings of the dawn. The precious relief of reality. There will be no salvation, He is close. There is no salvation to be found here, no deliverance from your fate. Your heart, as strongly as it had been beating before, seems to halt altogether. No matter how hard you try, your next breath will not come, as though your lungs have become concrete, filled in with gravel and dust, unable to function. Sweat, in large, acidic droplets, tear across your face. They sting your eyes, which are just now welling with tears that steal your vision. Suddenly, your muscles seize, frozen in an indescribable, primal fear. A horrible stench seeps into your very bones, corrupting you to the core. There is no escape from this fell torment, no relief to be found. Every night, for years, you have faced this demon alone. Each encounter brings with it the sinking realization that you are truly powerless, no comfort, no drug, no therapy can mount a defense against this monstrosity. He is here. There is no point in fighting it, resistance never yields any positive result. You learned long ago that any attempt to circumvent Him only delays the inevitable. There is no peace for you, no safety, no refuge to cower behind. The smell is so much worse now, rotting, infected flesh, bloated and green. Hot garbage is a pleasant perfume, a beautiful memory of days long past in comparison. The sounds, the godawful sounds. Like tossed bones in a wet, blood soaked leather bag, all sloshing around desperate to escape, free to bleach in the sun. Like when you step into a deep pit of thick mud, and try to lift your foot, only to lose your shoe to the suction, except you never leave that marsh. When He speaks, it is like gargling razors. A weak, lilting speech that makes your ears bleed, and eardrums burst, though even that does not cure your unease, and you hear him in your head. He is trying to take over, to control you as a mindless slave, bending and breaking you into his will. Shaping, molding your brain like putty with his words, which you cannot understand and are convinced are not any language heard in any mortal realm. He is upon you. His tendril-like fingers pierce your dwindling sanity, and he roughly spins you around to face him, holding you fast to his unflinching, unyielding gaze. There is silence now, but even that does not grant you solace. “I love you, Daddy.” This, this is what breaks you. You wake, tears streaming rivers into your cheeks, staining your pillow, as they have every night for the past thirty years. Not the terror, the insanity, the false sense of hope that all is right and everything is going to be okay. No, the endgame to your dread, the antithesis to your existence, is your dead son, who visits you in your sleep every night. He drowned, while you were at home with him. You’d taken a rare half day off of work, and went to create the best play day ever. Ice cream, water parks, go karts, and a movie while you put in the homemade pizzas to bake. You’d worked so much overtime lately, you must’ve dozed off. David, a rambunctious six year old with a love for all things water, had gotten a pool from you for his birthday, swimming lessons started the next day. He was a good kid, he usually listened, you’d filled up the pool for some last moments of fun after dinner, before the last sparkling rays of sun dwindled into nothing. You found him, facedown in the pool, an hour later, the pizzas burnt and smoke alarm blaring. It was so loud, it always made your ears hurt. You’d only just fallen asleep, the horror of what you saw never really kicked in until the funeral, when they laid that cold, unloving wooden box in the earth. There is no solace, no salvation to be found. Nothing can save you, nothing can grant you the relief that you’ve yearned for. Grief is a funny thing. They say that time heals all wounds, but you know that to be a lie. You know the real truth. Time is a merciless teacher, that shows people the secret of falsehood. The fake smiles at work, the sympathetic glances of coworkers, the oh poor so and so’s. The lonely nights, the empty days. The gloom that not even the dawn can shatter. It never gets better, but when you break down every night, you become an expert of building yourself back up, though it’s never quite right. You are cursed to long for peace, that will never come, not completely. Eventually, you change, and long for the release of a permanent unconsciousness, as the hope rekindles the flame in your heart, that one day, you will finally meet again.