Phantasmagoria: A bizarre assemblage of optical effects or illusions like those in a dream.

I'm currently being suffocated by a ball python version of the letter S. 

The air being forced from my lungs by an alphabetical aberration feels as daunting as the black spots spilling into my vision. I always knew I would die in this damn world, but I didn’t think it would be so soon. I have never been scared of death. In the small hours of the night, I have even found myself craving the sweet release it promises. And yet- the Thing’s scales split under my fingers, a mixture of our blood oozes down my hands, dripping from my elbows as my nails crack under the steely intensity of its skin. The wetness of my own tears mixes with the gurgling spit that foams out of my throat. But even if I could get enough air out of my lungs to plead for my life, it would be futile. Most of these things can’t understand us, and the few that can feed off the shrieking of their prey. I will not give it the satisfaction of hearing me cry out for a mercy it will not give. 

Just as my choking turns to nothing more than desperate rasps, I hear the distant sound of footsteps along the broken cobbled street around me, as if walking me to the afterlife. 

So be it.

 I’m done being scared, hungry, so damn tired; I want to claw my own eyes out. At least now, I can finally sleep. Maybe I’ll dream about something better than this nightmare of a reality I’m trapped in. 

“Ethan, you fucking loser. Just gonna lay there and die, huh? Jeez, I guess if you ask that nicely, I’ll save you.”  

 It’s been days since I’ve slept, and months since I’ve done so willingly. Even with the familiar voice taunting me, my fight is gone. I let my mind slip away into the void that isn’t currently calling me a loser.

“Hey, if you keep leaning on me like that, I’m going to get the wrong idea.”  Will’s taunting is nothing more than his usual banter. It serves its purpose: to startle me awake from my exhaustion-induced coma. My head jerks up from its resting place on his shoulder. A loud groan slips from my lips as my hand presses into the side of my head. It throbs with the absence of adrenaline, as if it feels the need to punish me for surviving.

“Wi~” The feeling of sandpaper dragging up my throat cuts my words off, and Will is quick to react with a soft shushing sound. “Hey, asshat, your throat is all fucked up. Stop trying to speak. You’ll make it worse.” When we first met four years ago, I thought Will’s harsh way of speaking was brazen and ignorant. But now- it’s a welcome sound. The lull of it is the closest thing to a home I’ve had since this ridiculous dream of our reality began.