An ever present nightmare.

It's been two weeks since I've slept.

At least any re-cooperating sort.

The images are so vivid and the emotion so pure and paralyzing that I've developed a fear of even closing my eyes. The night terror's have saturated my mind; this fact is not all together surprising. Seeing as if one lays down with dogs they might rise up with flees. Also true, is he who dances with demons might be driven mad by the terrors that would develop within. 

They seem to grow in number each time my body shuts down. I fight my fight.

Drinking enough caffeine to produce a heart murmur in most elephants, is typically a good place to start. From there I start alternating energy drinks and hours of energy with Alcohol and time spent hunched over a keyboard. I push through exhaustion into a place where even the most logical of minds lose their grip and fall into a soul crushing blackness. 

Every light in the house is on, the TV is screaming at me from only a few feet away and the air temperature is somewhere near hypothermia. I've developed a system to minimize my time in hell but every so often my body caves and crumbles under the divine retribution that is exhaustion. As my eyes close I waste what little energy I have on panicking and for a moment I can hear the hooves of the horseman as they once again chase me down. 

Originally the darkness was soothing, an absence of discomfort. Albeit a void of everything else. But, in all honesty a void was far better than what I had molded reality into.

I'm in no way naive enough to pretend that I am not the captain of my fate or the master of my destiny. In fact I recognize that I have been responsible for each and every etch and line used to give detail to my life. That's why the darkness was so soothing, there were no decisions to make. There were no instances of failure or people to hurt. Just an expanse of a deep and encompassing: Black. 

I hear the familiar sound of the horses breathing as I kneel broken down and shapeless. Resting on an intangible ground.

My exhaustion travels with me into this place. Imagine for a moment, being not only tired and unable to fight in life but also while dreaming. Death is the leader of the group and is often the only one to speak. 

His cloak floats on the air like smoke and his tunic and armor fit as if they were poured, while still molten, directly over his bare flesh. Then, allowed to cool forming and fitting to every muscle in his body.

For an instance I feel a smirk form on my face at the thought that: this was, in fact, entirely possible. After all this was Death, not Lord Greyskull, but THE DEATH. His armor very well could have been given to him in such a way. 

I'm not sure if it was due to a lack of imagination or a cosmic understanding but the horsemen always looked the same. Four men all a turkey baster combination of Lestat in charisma and personality and Don Draper in confidence and intimidation. Each one a carbon copy of idealism. Physically perfect and radiating a power that I genuinely could never hope to pen word to. In fact, if not for the slight variance in hue on the outer rim of each tunic, it would be all but impossible to tell them apart. 

I'm choking on the air, gasping for a breath. All the while hoping to die. 

Suffocation is a very slow and agonizing process, and is by far the worst part of the dream. The most unsettling part of all, is that; no matter how long I actually sleep I always wake as if I'd been struggling for air so long that every cell in my body was starved of oxygen. My chest heaves and my muscles ache burning from the inside out. 

Eon's pass as Death slowly, almost methodologically, begins the decent from his horse. With a fluidity that would turn every dancer throughout history green. He flips his reigns, throws his leg and spins off his horse. He seems to float, suspended by strings that possess no more understanding of time then I do of death. There's a slight breeze on my face and for a fraction of a heartbeat I remember her hand on my cheek and her smile warms me. 

Death despises my every thought of her and seeing as he is in fact a resident of my mind he is all to aware of my transgression. 

His voice cuts the air like a razor blade, hissing with a calm so chilling I am immediately ripped from my moment of solace. 

"You know she's not there anymore. You know that in your world your passed out, alone. Marinating in that revolting concoction of self loathing and Jack." as his sound kisses my ear, my stomach turns at the pungent stench of whiskey. I had no doubt passed out face down at my table again (waking up in a puddle of jack and coke is par for the course these days). 

"You failed her too. You know that, don't you" the last five words carried with them a sensation much like a struck match being placed directly into my ear, moments after igniting. 

I can't even muster a wince, but the pain is genuine. It's funny, my dreams are the only place I feel pain anymore. How odd that the only place I'm in complete control is the only place I can feel physical pain. I debate, for an instant, who was actually in control when I closed my eyes. 

"It's already started growing, as we speak, the thread of your life is being drawn taunt by the fates" Death insists on speaking to me as if time had reached its peak somewhere between Greek mythology and the Renaissance. But then again, I'd have to agree with him. 

With each step he takes, the smell of mash and charcoal grows. My already weakened constitution cracks and crumbles. I'm nauseous and have a red hot iron working its way through my core but both of these pale in comparison to the underlying fact that I have still to find my breath. Clasping my throat, I can only hope to speed up the process. 

"It humors me you still make that effort. You and I both know, you will wake when I am finished and not a moment faster. 

Besides, I do so enjoy our little chats. Our banter excites me. Your resolve to fight even when you and I share a mind entertains me. I know your every thought and yet you still resist. 

The fight was much more enjoyable before her, that I will admit. You were an adversary once, standing and fighting, gnashing your teeth and aiming for blood at every turn. Now you disgust me, even this game is growing dusty. 

I used to believe she had given me the weapon I wanted but now I realize that she has taken from me everything." 

Death is always such a bothersome cunt, ranting on like this. The old blowhard, the fact is it had only ever been a fight when the aforementioned SHE was asleep next to me. I still can't fully explain it, her being next to me gave me enough, not only to stand and breath, but to fight.

She gave me something I haven't had before or since. But now, the war had been long since over. Banners had been burned and now, only the ramifications of resolution lay before me.

I had lost, in every divine definition of the phrase, I. had. lost.

Death gets off, when I go about these long internal monologues about failure. He will often stand there in silence, fighting best he can a smile. Only to flash an insidious grin when he finally succumbs, typically it's the last line that forces the release. 

"It's only fitting Chris, even you never believed even for a moment that, you could over come. I mean for Christ's sake, cancer, no one beats cancer. And besides, with all the sins on your soul there's not an angel in heaven that could shoulder your charge. You poor, damned, disillusioned, child." 

A part of me always gets disgusted when he speaks of angels. It slaps me in the face and force feeds me my own subconscious thoughts on god. He's there, but can't be bothered with me. I debate going deeper into this daddy/deity issue I had exhumed but think better of it. 

"Neither of them would bother to lift a finger in your defense, your my play thing" once again the most unattractive thing about these dreams is the fact that I share a mind with my tormentor. 

Some nights are special. Some nights, when even the farthest corners of my mind are stained with self-loathing, we have visitors. I can hear the children laughing in the distance, my heart falls from my chest. I frantically search for a shard of glass, or a ledge, even a rope; anything to end it. The laughter grows in both volume and pitch, I feel the ground vibrate under the feet of Deaths favorite torture. The children I lost. 

The fact that I've been forced to experience not one, not two, but three separate "failed pregnancies". All, in 12 months is in no way lost on me. It's this and a few other catalysts that originally lead me to the conclusion of damnation. 

"Daddy, we've missed you" their voices pierce the veil and the air grows icy. 

"I couldn't imagine a more fitting instance for a family reunion, I'll allow you time, seeing as I know how little you have left" Death had already reached his horse and had merely breathed his words as he climbed to his saddle. They still echoed in my head.

My hands still searching desperately for hope. Reaching out into the expanse for a gift of fate. My throat burns at this point, my lungs have exhausted all capabilities and my muscles were beginning to fade. My vision had already started to go. 

"It's nice to see you, it's been so long" again they speak in unison. Chilling me to the core the icy air, like glass against my now raw throat. 

I remember the tears, the emotional vacuum brought on by this all to familiar confrontation.

To often they simply stood before me. Allowing every emotion associated with each, to develop and bloom. An anchor tied to each agonizing thought, forcing me deeper into the darkest reaches of my own memory.

 I remember the cold soulless hospital rooms, I remember the barren restaurant and the searing pain as each word pierced me. Their serrated edges tearing flesh as savagely as the gnashing teeth of Cerberus himself. I remember that same suffocating sensation; the shear lack of air as each step had carried me closer to the door and, my only hope for escape, before my sobs became audible. It was a sunny day out side and the scent of dogwood assaulted me even now as I pulled the memory to the forefront of my mind. 

I remember her looking to me, hoping to find solace only to be embraced with the void behind my eyes. The grip she had on my hand, crushing and eternal. Only to be out done by the unyielding discomfort brought about by watching love itself suffocate and die within moments of the loss of our child. 

Death watched, eyes glistening, as my mind spiraled deeper and deeper into the emotions anchored down by the faceless bodies of my unborn children. The ground slowly becomes fluid, for a moment I welcome something different. As I feel the liquid envelope me I realize I'd rather suffocate than drown. This is an altogether new nightmare. 

As I look up through the water I see the disorienting forms of what were the children. Looking past them I recognize a light silhouetting them from behind. For an instant my mind sprints to a moment in the car, her hand resting on the nape of my neck I am brought to a point of peace and I feel cared for; if only in memory.   

Day's seem to pass as I am suspended, exposed before the group. Powerless and weightless. Time frozen moments before my body would lose its fight and the cool water would fill my lungs. I begin to contemplate the irony of my hell being the moment before my death rather than any of these other torturous events. It dawns on me that my demons know me better than I know myself. I would inflict far more pain if simply left alone with my thoughts. 

My fathers voice echoes in my head: "you're your own worst enemy".

I crash to the ground soaked and coughing, Death's figure towers overhead. I hear the friction between his flesh and armor as he bends down next to me.

With a kindness a mother would show a wounded child he places his hand under my chin. Slowly he raises my head until I'm forced to gaze directly into his eyes. His eyes were the only thing in the void that appeared to be of a deeper black than my surroundings. 

I see a fury flash across his face. For an instance he and I share a thought, deep inside me, somewhere even I had forgotten to look. Smoldered the very fire Death had be tasked to extinguish. He'd been so close the last few nights I could tell his frustration was at its peak. 

For the first time emotion painted his face, at first I didn't recognize it.  I was baffled by the face looking back at me, but then I realized it was empathy. Not pity, or remorse, or anything more than a mere reflection. A mirror image of myself; so close to defeat only the embers remained. 

"Let go my child, you've fought so long, this war is over and there will be no victory. Not for any of us" his lips moved but it was her voice I heard. As I exhaled I could feel a few more embers go out, I could feel the pain leave my body. 

I cough and my entire body lurches forward. 

I'm once again being screamed at by my television, the air is icy with a faint scent of Freon. I'm blinded by light, gagging and retching. The pungent scent of jack assaults my senses, burning my eyes and searing my nostrils. I wipe the concoction from my face and run my hand along the sheets of my bed. 

I can still feel his hand under my chin and for a moment I debate the inevitability of seeing him again.