Siren. That’s the name he started calling me when he learned my singing could control not only the nightmares that he created, but people, too. It’s actually the only name I remember. I don’t know if it’s because I was probably too young when he snatched me up. Or if the years of his control are affecting my memory.

But I no longer remember the time I wasn’t under his control. I don’t even get a choice in how I look. When the Nightmare Master has control. It’s like he’s dressing a puppet. His puppet.

I’m forced into clothes that scream torment. Stitched together with his cruel hands. Meant to make me look like I’ve walked out of some sick, twisted nightmare. The jacket they put me in is made of black leather. But it’s not smooth, not soft.

It’s cracked. Like it’s been torn from the flesh of something long dead. It clings to me. Too tight in places, like it wants to suffocate me. The silver chains draped across my chest only add to the weight.

Some of them rattle when I move, making me feel like a prisoner in my own skin. There’s no comfort. Just cold metal and sharp edges. The sleeves end in tattered scraps. It’s as if someone ripped them off during a fight where I never had a chance.

A collar that spikes up around my neck digs into the skin. Almost like it’s trying to choke me, a constant reminder that I belong to something much darker. My shirt is worse. It’s torn in several places, like it’s been clawed at. Shredded by unseen hands.

The black fabric is soaked with old, dried bloodstains. I can’t even tell if it’s mine or not. The patches are mismatched. A grotesque collection of fabrics that has been sewn together in a hurry. Each patch is a symbol of something lost.

Each stitch signifies the nightmares I’ve been forced to endure. The straps crisscrossing my torso are tight. Too tight. I can feel the way they dig into my skin. Each one is a reminder that I’m not free.

The pants. They’re a joke. They were dark as night, torn at the knees, with the hem covered in the dirt and dust from everywhere I’d been dragged. A chain hangs from one of the belt loops, rattling whenever I move. Like a ghost that follows me everywhere.

The boots? Don’t get me started. They’re heavy, caked with dried blood and muck. The leather cracked like it’s seen the end of the world. But it doesn’t matter.

I’m meant to be a reflection of suffering. I should appear as if I have been broken a thousand times, yet still rise. That’s what they want. A soldier in their nightmare army. But my face.

My face is the real hell. My skin is pale, nearly ghostly, the way it’s been forced into submission. They make me wear black makeup, thick, smeared like I’ve been crying tears of shadow. The eyeliner is smeared under my eyes, dark as the night. My lips are painted with a blood-red stain that never comes off.

No matter how many times I try, when he gives back control. I can feel it cracking every time I speak, dry and stained. And my eyes. My eyes burn with a sick, golden glow I can’t turn off. They’re the Nightmare Master’s doing.

A mark of his control. He wants me to look like something that crawled out of the deepest part of a nightmare. I don’t have the strength to fight it. Not that I could even if I had the strength. He pushes our true selves to the back of our minds and controls us like puppets.

The hair? It’s wild—pulled into twisted tangles that never stay in place. It hangs in my face like the threads of a dark web. Some of it sticks to my forehead with the sweat that never seems to dry. He makes it this way.

Makes it look like it’s alive, like it’s part of the chaos. I hate it. I hate everything about it. And then there’s the guitar. You can’t even call it a guitar anymore. It’s a goddamn weapon.

The neck is jagged; the body warped like it’s been twisted in some hellish forge. Spikes jut out from every angle. Like they want to tear me apart if I stop playing. The strings aren’t even strings. They’re tendrils of dark energy that hum and pulse, like they’re alive.

Sharp blades run along the edges. Waiting for the nightmare master to use my body for another massacre. I don’t get to choose my music; the Nightmare Master picks it for me. It’s always loud. Always brutal. Every note is a scream.

A roar that makes the room shake. And when I play, I don’t play for me. I play to feed the nightmares. To fuel whatever sick thing the Master wants next.

I can’t stand it. But it doesn’t matter. I’m his puppet. And I don’t have a choice. I watch from deep within my mind as I step out onto the stage for my performance.

The Nightmare Master forces me to do these nightmare concerts at least once a day. There was no one in the audience at the moment. But as soon as someone hears my voice, they will come. My hands started strumming whatever melody he wanted me to play. Before lyrics started spilling from my mouth.

I’m sorry to say, but today is your death day.

The air is thick with rot and decay.

Your blood will paint the cold, cracked floor.

Dripping like echoes from the hands before.

Whispers crawl from the cracks in the wall.

Laughter distorts, a sickening call.

The lights flicker, the shadows bend.

This isn’t a dream—this is the end.

Run, run, but your feet won’t move.

The darkness wraps its chains around you.

A sick grin forms in the blackest shade.

Time runs out, and so will your veins.

A lullaby hums in a voice not your own.

Sung from the mouths of the buried and torn.

A faceless thing grins in the wide doorway.

Stretching its arms—your escort inside.

The walls breathe heavily, the ceiling caves.

Your name is etched on a tomb with no grave.

A jagged whisper, an icy embrace.

Your heart beats loud, but not for long.

Run, run, but your feet won’t move.

The darkness wraps its chains around you.

A sick grin forms in the blackest shade.

Time runs out, and so will your veins.

The bells don’t toll; the clocks don’t chime.

Only the sound of the end of time.

Your shadow melts, your hands turn cold.

The nightmare sings as it takes hold.

I’m sorry to say, but this is the end.

Your breath is stolen; no need to pretend.

A door creaks open; the void pulls tight.

Welcome to Nightmare Land. Say goodnight.