Dream Eating Nightmare

by jmj

Rating: mature
Tags: Pinkie Pie, Sad, Mrs. Cake, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 5734

When Pinkie's dreams encroach upon reality, what is real and what is illusion?

When Pinkie's dreams encroach upon reality, what is real and what is illusion?

Published 2013-08-23 15:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2013-08-23 15:50:01 UTC

D>E>N

I lay, rooted in bed. Crawling bugs beneath my flesh causes my shuddering form to squirm. The bugs are from my brain. The images within. The hideous drawings on tanned pony-hide. Nightmares. Fear strangles me, the breath barely slips passed the knot in my throat. I feel cold and yet I sweat uncontrollably from the night terror. How did it come to this? The prophetic nature of my unseen abilities, the iron cage of my mind and the sleepless nights the only key to the sanity I feel slipping with each waking moment. I needed that which torments, sleep.

And I had got it. What now? Only to remember. Only to watch the images flash by again. Only to venture hope in this frightful stasis.

The first time it happened, I had broken the mirror standing in my room during one of the dreams, visions my unconscious bubbled into an aching mind, exhausted and fitful from the lack of sleep. I had little more than cat naps for a month. The sleep walking didn’t surprise me, I’ve always fallen victim to that. What was a surprise was the vivid detail of the shattering glass. It was almost more than real, each glistening jagged shard’s descent played in slow motion as they twisted surrealistically towards the floor. I remember feeling somewhat ephemeral, as if watching the event play from another angle. The dancing brilliance of the light scorched through my skull, ratifying my senses, and filling me with satisfaction. In the dream, the pain of serrated edges biting deeply into my flesh was invigorating. It was nearly orgasmic. The pain, red-ribbon lacerations on my pink coat, the crawl of liquid life towards the oak floorboards of my room in Sugar Cube Corner. The sweet ripeness of my lifeblood as I eagerly drank from the well my heart pulsed through my body. Delicious.

And then I awoke in a start. The rigid grains of sand haunting my bleary eyes which not had time to melt. The rust growing within my joints painfully cracked punishing me. I had slept for maybe an hour at most.

The dreams kept waking me.

To my horror, I turned to see the silvery reflective surface standing as a maw of broken teeth, its stolid body reduced to a pile of glittering splinters on the floor. I wanted to cry. Mrs. Cake had given me that mirror when I came to live with them here. It was just another sign that I needed to get help for this condition I had come down with. I know, you know. I know why I couldn’t sleep at first, before the terrors that made me fight its embrace.

I haven’t slept sense he was released. My father. The stallion who whipped me and my sisters on the farm like slaves. The tyrant who routinely beat his wife and children. The filth who saw the curves of my body take shape with wicked delight. The beast whose punishments for perceived slights changed from black eyes and bruises to screaming loins and unwanted gropes. The things he made me do … I’ll never be able to forget completely.

I think that’s why I hide behind the parties. The only ponies who know are my aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Cake. They were appalled by what had happened. The Royal guard did a good job of keeping the story quiet to benefit me and my sisters. Even my mother … though she went to a mental institution, mindless and retarded from spousal abuse. She shit herself daily and never spoke, vacant eyes always looking but finding nothing. I think that’s why he began touching us … fucking us. There had never been love, only the lust of a beast. Unfortunately, the Cakes couldn’t take us all and my sisters went elsewhere. I haven’t seen them sense the division. I think that it may be better that we don’t see one another. Too many memories would come back. Too much pain.

The mirror. I was upset about it and spent those hours before the Cakes would wake up and begin their ritual baking crying my eyes out. It had been a beautiful standing mirror of fine ebonwood holding a surface of pristine glass. Mrs. Cake told me it was my “reminder that despite all the ugliness life had dealt, I was still a beautiful young mare with a future as bright and shiny as the glass itself.” I loved it. I spent hours looking into it, moving it to face the bed as I lay awake, knowing I would never hear the heavy sound of my father coming upstairs again, but still trembling.

In that mirror I found myself. The deep, dark wells that were my eyes slowly began to lighten and the broken frowns gave way to smiles in its reflection. I found redemption and understanding. I found peace. I watched my long, bloodstain colored hair rise and brighten. Who I needed to be to push who I had been deep into the hidden parts of my mind. It, as much as the Cakes, had been my solace.

For the first few months, the Cakes asked very little of me and I rarely spoke to them. We never talked about what had happened but I could see the sadness in their eyes. I remember the surprise, the glow in their eyes, when I asked if I could learn their business. The education of confectionary art was what helped me get to know them. My father … he never let us visit family. I had only met them a few times in the past and their kindness was genuine. Why else would they take in a stranger in familial clothing and care for her as their own? They are good. Heart and Soul, they were caring and compassionate ponies with a love begging to be passed on.

They had wanted children, I learned from Mrs. Cake, but had yet to be blessed with them despite years of trying. They treated me like their child and I began to think of them as my parents over the years I stayed with them. Even when they managed to have legitimate children, their love for me remained and it’s something I will never forget. That feeling is what binds me to this bed, frightened and frozen by what could await me downstairs.

The second time it happened, I dreamed of my father. I dreamed, in those few moments of sleep I was granted in the endless time between sunset and sunrise squeezing my eyes shut and praying for rest, that he had come to Ponyville in search of me. He had rationalized that one or all of his daughters, the ones who had went to the closest Royal Guard post to our rock farm and told of his deeds, would be staying with the sister of his wife. I heard him coming, those loud hoof-steps, the ragged breath that signified his lust, and the slight giggle of his intoxication. He appeared at the top of the stairs and I pulled my blanket over my head, falling back to the only defense I had as a foal, praying he would go away or … at least be quick with his ripping appendage.

I smelled his breath through the blanket and felt his presence pressing over me. I lowered the blanket to my muzzle and shrieked at the closeness of his face, seeing the coal in his eyes smoldering and burning, devouring him. I cried and managed only a weak plea, “Please, daddy. Please don’t hurt me.”

“You are mine, Pinkamena Diane. You and your sisters have always belonged to me. I will do with you as I see fit and I think it is time for your punishment.” His words were thick with bile and dripping of venom. I thought my heart would pump itself to death. I prayed it would. In the darkness he forced himself upon me, a smile of sickening delight took his features. I could feel the pain in my loins again, I wept while he did what he wanted and cursed myself. I was an adult now and should fight him off, and yet the fear inspired by my foalhood continued to hold me in place and make me weak.

That’s who I am. A weak fool needing help.

I prayed he would be quick but it lasted for what seemed like forever. I lay, biting the pillow, afraid to call for help, afraid to fight, afraid to do anything but be his slave. He yanked me around and the persistent piercing ceased as a warm, sticky liquid splashed my face and muzzle. It was nothing that hadn’t happened before and I knew what he wanted even before he said it. “Open your mouth, Diane. Open and swallow.”

I did as commanded but something was wrong with the taste, metallic and thin, leaving what felt like granules of dirt across my tongue and throat as I swallowed. In the darkness I was nearly blind but realized he was holding something above me. I looked up at the darkened form, straining to understand, when a lantern flared to life, revealing what he was holding; the dripping heads of my sisters.

They stared sightlessly with eyes the color of aged milk and the shredded meat of their necks oozed black blood upon my face. Their mouths worked slowly as if they were trying to speak and I screamed. My father laughed and their words, whispery weak as if on a breeze caught in my ears. “Join us, Pinkie. We’ll be a family again. It’s where you belong.”

Bubbles of the inky liquid poured from their lips as they twisted into crooked smiles, cackling laughter spilling from them. I tried to free myself from the bed but my father dropped the heads and leaned all of his weight onto me, pressing me roughly into the place where I would die. He grinned and suddenly a long serrated knife used for sawing appeared in his mouth. He leaned down and I felt the teeth of the knife rending the meat of my neck, tearing away tiny chunks like a rabid dog ripping a chipmunk. The hot pain flared throughout my upper body.

In that instance, I felt something break inside of me, some instinct to protect my life kicked in and I brought my back leg up into his crotch. I knew they were more sensitive after orgasm and he let go a bellow of wind that freed the knife from his grip. The lantern spilled and the light jerked erratically. I saw the pain in his features as he drew back from me for an instant. The light shone on the sadistic grins of my sisters’ heads, then to my father still holding his aching stallionhood, and finally to the sawblade knife lying on the bed in a swaddling of blankets. I lunged for escape but his heavy body still pinned me to the bed. I looked back and the light flashed his features, all business of murder. They were like the pictures of demons in scary books. I screamed, my throat ripping from the shriek as he pounded at me with his powerful hooves. I could feel my flesh tearing and pulling apart. I had to do something. He’d soon kill me if I didn’t.

The flickering light caught the blade again and I reached for it with the last of my strength. I tasted the ashen handle and turned back to my father, springing from the bed and slashing the knife at him.

“Pinkie! What are you doing?” Mrs. Cake’s voice woke me up. I was standing in the kitchen of Sugar Cube Corner, a long wavy blade used for cutting bread clenched in my teeth. I had been sleep walking again; it had been only a terrible dream. I dropped the knife and fell to the floor a crying mess. Mrs. Cake took me upstairs and I told her about the dream and how I had heard about his release from prison. She soothed me and promised that she would never let anyone harm me. I felt like a foal, but it was what I needed.

The sleepless nights continued and what few moments of rest I got brought me to places I feared. I would be running away in my dreams to wake up in different parts of the bakery. It scared me because I never knew what was going on. I would wake up thinking he was still chasing me, frequently waking up Mr. and Mrs. Cake or their foals. Mrs. Cake would talk to me and calm me down and tell me it was all just a dream but I could see she was worried. She was worried for me and wanted my peace of mind. She was my mother.

I would never hurt her. I could never bring myself to harm them, even if I were sleepwalking. Never … right?

The most frightening was when I would talk to myself in my dreams. I had slowly began dreaming of myself, but not in myself, as if I were a floating observer. In those dreams, I would always be strong. I would fight my father when he came for me. After a while, they were the only dreams I had. Then I started talking to myself in them.

I would say things like “You have to grow up, Pinkie. You have to deal with that monster, that fuck. You’re going to run the rest of your life or drive yourself crazy if you don’t. I’m trying to help you.” Her voice was empty of emotion and she was the darker color, the color of my depressive life at home with my father. She was adult, but the me from that time complete with flat blood-stain hair. She would grin and get a look that was far more frightening than any my father had ever given and yet the same murderous glint caught in her eyes. “I’m not going to let him take you. If you can’t help yourself, I’ll help you. Now get with it, you cowardly bitch!”

I don’t know what was worse, me or my father. Both dreams were horrific and I began fighting sleep because I knew what would be waiting for me. I sometimes heard that hollow voice in my head when I was awake. “Get with it, you coward. You’re running out of time.”

For months I fought sleep but it’s a battle I have to lose or my body will kill itself. It’s ironic that the sleep I craved for when it would not come became what I feared so much. Then came the dream that causes me to feel the ice in my veins now.

After a week of sleep deprived voices, they stopped. The warnings and curses to accept my past and remove the obstacles that impeded my growth ended. I felt miserable from the hour per night of rest I allowed myself but felt a sort of harmonious peace within me, warming me. It said that everything would be alright. I still had a cold spot in my stomach knowing that my father was out there somewhere, but it didn’t matter. For the first time in what seemed like years, I felt I could close my eyes and really find the rest I needed, the rest I deserved.

That night I kissed Mr.and Mrs. Cake and their foals and went to bed. I barely made it under the sheets before the gentle caress of sleep took me.

I watched myself again, floating behind the dark pink version of myself as I ran from Ponyville. My legs pounded powerfully, a feat I had not been able to do from low energy in a long time. I could hear the thick motions of my lungs and could even feel the ache in my legs and back as I forced my body passed its boundaries. I ran, flat hair flying behind me, through the Everfree forest and further into the world. I knew my destination. I was dreaming I was going back to the rock farm.

Panic shook me and I willed myself to wake up, screaming at myself to stop but I couldn’t. It was like my voice, though I heard it, was false, an imaginary sound, a ghost. Though, I swear I could hear laughter through the panting, ragged breaths of my running self.

I couldn’t stop myself and I traveled for hours until I stood in the stony field of my home. The windmill had fallen apart and the rocks were overgrown with weeds. The farmhouse itself was worse than I remembered, paint peeling and a few holes in the roof with windows boarded up. Despite this, there was smoke fuming from the chimney and a weak light coming from within the house. My heart beat rapidly and I screamed at myself to turn around and run. He was in there! He’d rape us again! He’d kill us for what we did!

I didn’t listen, walking forward and pushing the door open with a hoof. I watched my balloon-marked flank enter and followed quickly.

Inside the farmhouse a fire burned in the chimney and I crept silently around the outskirts of the light, listening to the raspy breathing of an older stallion that had to be my father. I pleaded with myself to leave to no avail, finally getting a response from myself. “I told you, Pinkie. Now we are here. This is what you wanted.”
No … seeing him again was not what I wanted. Having him push me down and take me again was not what I wanted.

“What?” I could see him now, he had stirred from sleep when I spoke to myself. He was looking around curiously, defensively. A sharp saw-bladed knife in his mouth as he looked suspiciously into the dark corners of the old, withered room. “Whoever you are, come out. I’ll cut you to pieces!”

I stepped into the light, my voice as hollow as a dead pony’s lungs. “Daddy, I missed you. I’m home.”

He looked at me, eyes struggling to focus in the dim light until a savage grin split his head. “Pinkamena Diane? Is that you? I’ve missed you, girl.”

“Daddy … I’ve missed you too. Please, please forgive me. I tried to stop them from going to the Guards. I told them you loved us and that we were yours. We should give you whatever you wanted from us because you loved us.” My words were sweet but soulless, fluttering husks on butterfly wings.

He dropped the knife, his features stretching, much older than he used to be, but with that same lusty, lecherous look. I knew what he wanted and he honeyed his words like he used to before he would push me into my pillow and lift my hips. “Oh, I know. I always knew you loved your daddy, Diane. You were always my favorite. Come. Come to daddy and let him love you again.”

I watched in horror as I walked to him, wrapping my forelegs around him in a loving embrace and accepting his lips against my neck. I could see his eyes as we hugged, staring with great interest at my adult body, the curvature of my soft rump and legs. He wanted me; it was so obvious. In my dreams I went back to him, the stallion who hurt me, ruined me. This was the punishment for being a coward.

“Daddy, I want you. I understand now and I want you too. Here, please …” I couldn’t stop the dream no matter how hard I tried and I was forced to watch myself turn my rump to him and lay my upper body flat onto the dirty floor. “ … take me like you used to.”

He stroked my back and took a moment to enjoy the roundness my new body before leaping onto me. “It’s been a long time, Diane. I haven’t been able to get hard for a while but you are doing a real number on an old stallion. Give me a kiss and get ready.”

He leaned down, eyes closed and lips forming a circle as he went in for a kiss. A malicious grin ripped across my face and my eyes turned to pinholes as my foreleg kicked the dropped sawblade knife to my mouth. I yanked the blade around and caught him just under the bulge in his throat, a fountain of crimson spewed from the wound and he gurgled in shock wetly, falling backward and landing hard on his back, hooves grasping at the shredded cut the sawblade left. I heard myself laughing maniacally. “You old letch! Do you think I would ever forgive you for what you did?” My voice had turned psychotic, hitting shrill notes of erratic heights and waving with fury. “You hurt me for the last time, Father! You sick fucking bastard!”

I watched as I leapt upon him, his shrieks nothing but bubbly sounds as blood filled his lungs. I heard tearing, heard the teeth grinding deeply into his body, and watched the vermillion circle grow as I sliced repeatedly into the meat of his body. I screamed, terrified, as I watched myself do this until it finally ended. I simply stood, backed away, and grinned. The light of the dying fire reflected red in my eyes and my coat was matted with blood and pieces of gore that the sawblade had torn loose and found purchase in my coat and mane. I felt faint in the dream and a blackness crept at the edges of my vision. It slowly engulfed my view but as the final pieces of light flickered in my field of vision, I heard myself say, “No more worrying, Pinkie. Diane has fixed everything for you.”

I awoke in my bed, the sun shining through my window. For a moment, I forgot the dream but then jumped from my bed in shock. I shivered and braced myself for the blood that had to be stuck to my body. Summoning all of my courage, I looked down at myself.

Nothing but a happy pastel pink and bouncy curls. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and felt relieved. It had been nothing but a dream after all. I felt good, except for a weird soreness in my legs and back, probably from the full night of sleep as I was unaccustomed to lying in one position for long periods of time, and bounced downstairs happily. For the first time in a long while, I was happy and Mr. and Mrs. Cake smiled joyously at seeing their daughter back to her normal self. I felt great and for the next several nights I slept dreamlessly and comfortably.

A week after that heinous dream, my happiness died. I was baking up a batch of cupcakes to replace those sold during our lunch rush when I heard the bell attached to the door ring when someone entered the bakery. I thought nothing of it until I heard Mrs. Cake take a serious tone. Curiously, I poked my head around the door to see a member of the Royal Guard. Mrs. Cake was looking at him with a very concerned expression on her face.

“Yes, ma’am. We found him this morning. He had been cut to pieces in his farmhouse. It looks like a homicide. We’re investigating now but haven’t turned up anything solid yet.” The grave tone in his voice scared me. I knew exactly what he was referring to, but it had only been a dream, right? I hadn’t really traveled all the way to the farm, killed my father, and returned in one night, had I? That was ludicrous … it was only a dream. It was just a coincidence.

“That’s unfortunate. He wasn’t a good pony, but he didn’t deserve that.” Mrs. Cake replied with an authentic touch of sympathy in her voice.

“Ma’am, would you mind if I spoke to his daughter? It’s just protocol but we have a few questions for her.” The Royal Guard moved to come around the counter and I ducked back around the doorway, my breakfast turning to lead in my tummy. I was in no state to talk to a Royal Guard. I was scared and shaky, trying to convince myself that it was only a dream. There was no way I would sound normal to him. I mean, I had nothing to hide because it was all an illusion, a fantasy of the unconscious mind while I slept, but it still scared me.

“No. Listen, sir. It took Pinkie a long time to get over what that monster did to her. I don’t want anything bringing those painful feelings back up. She’s a good girl and doesn’t need this right now. Please, just leave her alone.” Mrs. Cake’s voice was full of heartfelt love for me and I was grateful for it. I felt tears dripping down my cheeks and wiped at them as I awaited the Guardspony’s response.

For a moment he said nothing and I felt heavy and frostbitten from the stress. Finally he spoke, “Okay, Mrs. Cake. If I need to come back, I will, but, for now, let’s leave it alone. I read the report this morning and I’m sure it’s not something she wants to remember.”

“Thank you, sir. Here. Take a few of these pastries with you. A young, healthy stallion like you needs to eat.”

I heard the doorbell again and collapsed on the tiled floor of the kitchen. A few moments later Mrs. Cake was hugging me. “I guess you heard that, Pinkie?”

I snuggled into her loving embrace and wept, still affirming the coincidental nature of the event. “Uh huh.” It was the only reply I could get out.

“It’s terrible, Pinkie, but you can dry your eyes. You don’t have to worry anymore. He’s gone and you’re here with us. We love you, honey.” I looked into her eyes and smiled but there was something there that frightened me. I could see a little doubt hiding in her eyes, as if she were questioning something for herself. I just wept harder and hugged into her soft blue coat.

After a while, I went back upstairs and laid down, trying to get a grip on what had happened. I was sure that it was a dream, but accepting the knowledge that the stallion who had ruined my childhood and scarred me for life was gone took some time. I lay there for a long while when something caught my eye. I sat up and walked toward the window, something was caught in it.

I lifted the window and it flew free, dispersing out into breeze, all except one chunk that seemed stuck to the windowsill. I leaned in and my breath caught in my chest. Blackness took me as I fainted. It was a lock of mane the same color as my father’s, and it was stuck to the sill with a thick congealment of dark crimson.

Had I done it? Over the next week, I asked myself that question more times than I can count. It had to have been a dream. I would remember killing someone, wouldn’t I? But, how did that chunk of bloody mane get there? I couldn’t come up with an answer that wasn’t insane. From old paintbrush bristles accidentally left with red paint on them to something a hawk had preyed upon came to my fevered brain but none of it made sense. Of course, sleep-killing didn’t make sense either, so I didn’t know what to believe. One thing was sure, I was losing sleep again and Mrs. Cake seemed to be watching me more closely.

I frequently broke into fits of tears while working. So much, in fact, that the Cakes pulled me from working the counter. I could tell they were worried about me, but there was something else. I tried to remain calm, smile, and be happy in their presence but the gnawing weight of what I might have done kept wearing me down and I would either excuse myself or fall apart in front of them.

When sleep would take me, I’d see myself, stained red with blood and grinning wickedly. I’d be staring back at me with those fire-orange eyes and that chilling voice would come from within the evil gash across my face. “She knows. You’d better buck up and take care of things, Pinkie. You don’t want me to come out again. Do you?”

I’d awake in a start and weep until the sun vanquished the night and I had to work again. This kept on for a while. I battled to appear normal, losing far too often, and then battle to stay awake only to succumb to dreariness and be confronted with the devilish eyes of whatever I became in my dreams. It broke me down and compounded the worries of the Cakes.

Finally, one evening Mrs. Cake and I were cleaning up when I slipped and cut myself with a knife. It wasn’t bad but the blood reminded me of the nightmare and I couldn’t help but fall to my knees and drip tears onto the floor.

Mrs. Cake stroked me gently and bandaged the cut. We sat there for a moment and she lifted my chin, meeting my eyes with hers. She looked worried and serious. Something important was coming and I shuddered under her gaze. “Pinkie. The Guardspony came back today. He said …” She paused as if it hurt her to say it, “he said they found something at the crime scene of your father. He … he said they really need to talk to you. I sent him away but he will be back soon. It’s important that you talk to him.”

I looked miserably into her eyes and shook my head. There was no way I could have done it. It was JUST A DREAM! “I … I can’t Mrs. Cake.”

“Honey, they think you did it. I will help you all I can, but if you don’t talk to him by choice, they will take you.” Her voice nearly broke and I felt my head split in half. It was too much. I was losing my mind and my whole head felt like a log being rent by an axe. It was all a misunderstanding! I was no murderer!

My voice was blocked by a knot forming from the severe sobbing that had suddenly set upon me. “Mrs. Cake … please. I’m so scared. The dreams … I didn’t do it. I couldn’t have.”

Mrs. Cake sat up and stroked my mane, trying to calm me but failing. She sighed and looked into me with eyes that betrayed her faith in me. The look hurt, cut me deep, broke my heart. “Pinkie, I … I believe you but … I mean … where did you go the night your father was murdered? I came to bring you a warm milk before bed and found you missing with the window open.”

Her words were the final nail in the coffin of my denial. I screamed, leaping to my hooves and shouting things I can’t even remember. I know I accused her of not trusting me and being just as bad as my father had been. I ran up to my room a wreck. So much was coming down on me and my emotions were frantic and insane. I thought of running away, of killing myself, but the stress was so intense that a sudden consuming need for sleep swallowed me. I lay in my bed completely drained and unable to fight the cloud of sleep.

The dreams that came are my Hell. The cage which binds me in this bed and threatens my sanity. I watched myself, the bloodstained me, rise from the bed in the middle of the night and descend the stairs.

I walked into the blue black of the kitchen and giggled sinisterly. “Don’t fret, Pinkie. Diane will fix your problems again. Just relax and watch the show.” My words were twisted with venom and I took my time looking over the selection of knives used for baking. Each were sharpened finely and could easily slice through any type of food in the bakery. More frighteningly, they could just as easily cut through flesh. I watched as I pulled a large butcher knife from its woodblock and grinned around the handle.

I screamed, my words trapped within my own mind and could not be heard. I yelled warning to the sleeping Cakes to no avail, all the while earning the mad giggling of that which controlled my body.

She was me but she wasn’t at the same time. I pleaded with her, begged, promised to compose myself and become stronger. She would not have it and pushed the door to the Cakes’ bedroom open silently. What little moonlight filled the hall cut a long rectangle of light across the black room and illuminated the soft features of my family, Mr. and Mrs. Cake.

I fell apart, promising everything I could and begging with all my heart for her to leave them alone. She would not answer me so I screamed alarms to the sleeping Cakes with no success. I watched, broken, destroyed, helplessly as I stabbed the only ponies who loved me repeatedly. They never had a chance and I was forced to watch them reduced to little more than bleeding chunks while she laughed. Their blood covered her, filled her mouth and eyes. The laughter continued and I felt the blackness taking me. It was too much to endure and I, once more, fell unconscious while my body sunk the butcher knife to the hilt in the gashed remains of my loving family over and over again.

Then I woke up in my bed.

I pray the slickness coating my body is just sweat from the nightmare. I pray that the red dots on my pillow are from my cut leg, the bandage Mrs. Cake applied having fallen off. Rooted by fear in the bed of the only family who ever truly loved me, afraid of what may await downstairs.