It could mean, something one aspired towards; a nebulous future of eternal bliss. Or it could simply describe the randomized firing of the neurons in an unconscious brain — the sleeping dreams, which oh-so-often curdled to the negatives. The regrets. The anger. The mourning.
Then, of course, there were nightmares. The treasonous dreams. The dreams that left a man fearing for his life, in the safety of his own skin. And inside the loop of the purely linguistic train of thought, that word could also be used to describe things that were very, very real.
Like, Vincent figured, the situation they were in right now could certifiably be called a “nightmare”. All the hallmarks were there. The creepy mansion in the ancient woods, lit up by the yellowed glow of the one-eyed moon. The werewolf’s claws, lightly clacking along the wooden floor of the mansion’s labyrinthine hallways. And the Possession — a fucking dead guy piloted by a demonic spirit like a rotting space suit — hovering somewhere above them, hidden in the tattered shadows drowning the grand spiral staircase.
The nightmare script was writing itself — despite the fact that, as far as Vincent was aware, the only guy that was actually sleeping was the exorcist squad’s leader, Father Peter. And based on the amount of blood that was seeping through the links in his armor and whispering its way into the side of Vincent’s cassock, he probably wasn’t dreaming very much.
If at all.
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