A Personal Experience By Matty
My friend Billy likes to chat when we have sleepovers. He seems to think the point of them is to be up all night talking; I always want to remind him that it has the word "sleep" in it, but he wouldn't listen anyway. One particular night, I was exhausted from listening to Billy ramble all night, so I came home to take a nap. My family was gone -- at my brother's school show, I figured.
I tried to stay awake long enough to watch some TV, but eventually zombie-walked to my room and collapsed into bed. I started dreaming.
In my dream, I walked into my bathroom and flicked on the lights. Blood stains spilled over the edges of the tub; inside, a little girl lay sprawled, covered from head to toe in the blood. Her eyes were filled with bloody tears, and she was crying out, over and over again: "Help me...help me..."
I jerked awake, the filaments of the dream still lingering at the edges of my brain. I realized my bladder was calling for relief. I didn't want to use the bathroom, but I had to go. I stumbled into the bathroom and plopped onto the toilet, rubbing my tired eyes.
I lifted my head and frowned. My hands were like ice blocks. And I could feel something warm dripping down my fingers. Blood? I wanted to cry out, but maybe it was just sweat from my dream, so I stood up and looked in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, but there was no blood.
Then a horrible idea hit me.
I turned to the bathtub.
There was the girl, scrunched into a tight ball. Blood decorated her face like gruesome warpaint, and her mouth was moving -- was she singing? I couldn't tell.
My own lips moved silently, trying to form a scream. I heard the familiar sound of my father's car pull up in the driveway, so the part of my brain that was still functioning normally presumed they were home. I continued to try to scream, but no one came.
I blacked out.
I found myself lying on the bathroom floor when I came to. Pressing a hand to my forehead, I ran to my parents' bedroom and peered in. They were safely asleep.
I looked down at my hand. There was the faintest trace of blood between my fingers.
I am scared to this day to use the bathroom in my house.
My friend Billy likes to chat when we have sleepovers. He seems to think the point of them is to be up all night talking; I always want to remind him that it has the word "sleep" in it, but he wouldn't listen anyway. One particular night, I was exhausted from listening to Billy ramble all night, so I came home to take a nap. My family was gone -- at my brother's school show, I figured.
I tried to stay awake long enough to watch some TV, but eventually zombie-walked to my room and collapsed into bed. I started dreaming.
In my dream, I walked into my bathroom and flicked on the lights. Blood stains spilled over the edges of the tub; inside, a little girl lay sprawled, covered from head to toe in the blood. Her eyes were filled with bloody tears, and she was crying out, over and over again: "Help me...help me..."
I jerked awake, the filaments of the dream still lingering at the edges of my brain. I realized my bladder was calling for relief. I didn't want to use the bathroom, but I had to go. I stumbled into the bathroom and plopped onto the toilet, rubbing my tired eyes.
I lifted my head and frowned. My hands were like ice blocks. And I could feel something warm dripping down my fingers. Blood? I wanted to cry out, but maybe it was just sweat from my dream, so I stood up and looked in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, but there was no blood.
Then a horrible idea hit me.
I turned to the bathtub.
There was the girl, scrunched into a tight ball. Blood decorated her face like gruesome warpaint, and her mouth was moving -- was she singing? I couldn't tell.
My own lips moved silently, trying to form a scream. I heard the familiar sound of my father's car pull up in the driveway, so the part of my brain that was still functioning normally presumed they were home. I continued to try to scream, but no one came.
I blacked out.
I found myself lying on the bathroom floor when I came to. Pressing a hand to my forehead, I ran to my parents' bedroom and peered in. They were safely asleep.
I looked down at my hand. There was the faintest trace of blood between my fingers.
I am scared to this day to use the bathroom in my house.
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