He flicks the electric blanket off and rolls around in the bed for a few moments as he tries to find that comfy spot, once he finally manages to feel like he’s found it, he reaches up and turns off the bedside lamp, and he closes his eyes, anticipating, hoping, that maybe tonight will be the night he actually gets some sleep. For the past three weeks, Leonard has found it almost impossible to get any decent sleep, thirty minutes here, and hour there, but nothing that really allows him to recharge. Because when he does close his eyes, he is greeted with images of a volatile nature, bodies twisting and turning, broken and bloody, screams of pain and agony, a vision of something, he’s never witnessed before, and the laughing, that’s what disturbs him the most, there’s laughing, a deep, male voice, always laughing at the pain and suffering of those broken bodies. He lies there staring at the clock and closes his eyes again, thirty seven minutes ago he took two of the tablets that his doctor prescribed to help him sleep, he referred to them as light sedatives and should only help him fall asleep and stay asleep, but they should not effectively put him in a coma like Valium can. He feels himself begin to drift away, and smiles as he finally, feels like tonight, is his night.
He opens his eyes seconds later and leaps out of bed in a panic, around him is no longer the room he knows, but his bed has somehow been transported into a run down, dirty old shed, he can hear the roof creaking in the wind, and a cold breeze rips through his body, and he can hear it, a dripping sound, coming from behind him, he slowly looks around and falls off the bed and crashes to the floor, he nervously looks up, over the bed, at the bodies that hang from the ceiling upside down, a sea of blood beneath them as they drip, drip, drip into it.
“What the fuck? What the fuck? Wake up, wake up!” he stammers to himself, he feels a hand slap down on his shoulder and he nervously looks over and scrambles backwards at the sight of the smiling man, with a thin moustache, and wispy goatee, dressed in a bloodstained white jumpsuit with a rubber apron on.
“What, did I scare you Patrick?” he asks.
“How the fuck do you know my name?”
He laughs, “Why wouldn’t I know your name, it is your dream after all, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what the fuck this is, but this is not my dream?”
“Oh, sorry, wait, yes, yes, your right, let me get the ambience back,” he says as he clicks his fingers, the screaming starts and the hanging bodies behind him begins to twist and turn, the lights flicker on and off and Patrick forces his hands over his ears and tightly closes his eyes.
“STOP!” he yells and then everything goes quite, he slowly opens his eyes and finds himself sits on the floor of his room and lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” he says softly.
“Don’t thank that interloper, always ruining my fun, thank me, I’m the one who made all the voices go quite,” the man says, Patrick darts a look over to the chair that sits in the corner and he slowly peeks his head out of the darkness and smiles.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Everything my dear boy, everything, weeks of work, things your puny little mind would never understand, no matter how long, and how much information you were given, all you need to know is, that you’re mine now, to do with as I please, as I have with all the other disconnected souls that have haunted your dreams over the past few weeks, and while you’re here, being my latest toy thing, your earthly body will lie in an eternal slumber, never to wake, again,” he says with a smile.
“What the fuck are you talking about? Who the hell are you?”
“I’m talking about always making sure you read up on what you’re taking Patrick old boy, you never know who is slipping you a mickey, and who I am,” he says with a big smile. “Let’s just call me the devil and be done with it all!”