Tell me about the worst nightmare you ever had

Everyone dreams every night, but whether you remember any of it, and how vivid those memories are, varies to an extreme extent from people to people.

Quod gratis asseritur, gratis negatur.

I am aware of that. If I did not dream I would be dead. I was just using the common way of say that you do not remember your dreams.

Please.

I always try to set the record straight, whether or not I believe someone's actually misunderstanding something. It's always good to know more, and even if only a quarter of the "educational" posts I make actually teach anyone anything they didn't know before, it'll be worth it.

Quod gratis asseritur, gratis negatur.

EDITED IN: Didn't realize until years later that this borders on personally identifying. Scrapped.

edited 14th May '15 9:58:42 PM by HiddenFacedMatt

"The Daily Show has to be right 100% of the time; FOX News only has to be right once." - Jon Stewart

I just had my worst nightmare last night.

One thing that's important to explain is that the "me" of the dream wasn't actually me. She was in her late teens, slightly dim but very confident and energetic, with blond hair just long enough to occasionally get in the way. (I saw it all through her eyes, but if I had to guess, I'd have said that she was pretty.) She/I was intensely loyal to a spirited old woman whom she referred to as "Mom," though they didn't seem to be blood relatives.

We were strolling together through a grassy area on the edge of a vast forest—somewhere we'd been many times before, though we'd never entered the woods. I was chatting with her about a movie that would be out soon, simple, idle talk, when she turned without a word and walked towards the trees. She did not respond to my questions, but I assumed there was some reason behind her actions, and I walked by her side into the darkness.

It was not truly dark in the woods—light still shone between the trees—but there was a kind of miasma that blurred my vision and my thoughts, intangible yet growing thicker and thicker as we walked. I slowed as we ascended a steep slope, and for the first time, I noticed the bones of small animals. The old lady moved far faster than I expected, her body energized as her will was drained, and somehow I found that she was already ahead of me.

She stood at the top of the slope, and a figure in a horned mask took her by the hand. I called out to her, but she did not hear me, and she smiled as both she and the masked figure vanished into darkness.

From there, the dream skipped ahead. I cannot fill in the blanks as to what the dream-me did then*

, but it seems that I made many trips into the forest, each time going a little deeper, hiding whenever strange shadows passed, and ignoring the soundless voice that urged me to forget about the old lady, and just walk deeper and deeper into the woods.

The dream began again when I found her—not that I recognized her, at first. Her face was swollen and distorted, as if with disease, and her fingernails were like claws. Her clothes were dirty and ragged, and the light was gone from her eyes. But what struck me most was the way she whimpered when she saw me. I somehow knew that whatever had taken her had tortured her many times, giving her hope that I would come for her, only to snatch that hope away, breaking her down, trying to make her as hateful and monstrous as itself.

I didn't speak. The soundless voice was paradoxically louder, and louder still, and we had to leave. I took her hand, and together we made our way out of the forest—but the miasma clogged my lungs, and I felt like I was drowning.

We made it. Barely. When we were out of the trees, I turned away from her and vomited, expelling from myself the thick, black substance the miasma had hardened into. The old lady bent double, but did not vomit, and I took that as a heartening sign—she still had the dignity to wait till she was in private. The swelling in her face had gone down, and she seemed to be herself again.

And then she turned to me and begged. I had to go back. I had to help the others. Derek, didn't I know Derek?*

He'd been almost broken by now. And there were more to save, more who were awaiting "the ritual." She couldn't go back in there; she needed me to save them.

I looked into her eyes, and I wondered if I could do this. I was lucky to have gotten out at all. But at the same time, I knew I couldn't abandon anyone else to whatever was in the woods.

The dream ended as I walked her back home, awaiting one night's rest before I went back into the woods and confronted whatever was to be found there.

(When I woke up this morning, one of the first things I did was to tell my mother I loved her.)

edited 6th Sep '11 4:29:46 PM by feotakahari

That's Feo . . . He's a disgusting, mysoginistic, paedophilic asshat who moonlights as a shitty writer—Something Awful

Aw, fiddlesticks, did I really have to read Drunk Girlfriend's post? Now I'm so disturbed I can barely read any of the other nightmares in this thread.