He sat up sharply, unaware of the startled scream that escaped his throat. The cold sweat that drenched him went ignored, the alerted gaze from his cocoa dark eyes darting back and forth around the place and his chest rising and falling rapidly. He sat frozen on his bed, listening. Waiting, his heart hammering in his chest.
That's when he felt it. Trickles of blood sliding down between the bridges of his nose, dripping down his chin. His stomach churned, and he threw the sheets aside, stumbling as he got out of bed and rushed towards the bathroom, only for his vision to experience a sickening blur. He could no longer contain it.
Splat! Vomit unleashed onto the floor, staining it with the late dinner that he could barely eat due to the loss of appetite that he had been experiencing. He leaned against the bathroom door heavily for support, gagging as he found the knob and shoved forward, leading to his stagger into the bathroom.
On the sink, there was already cleaning supplies that had been left out for weeks, this having become a routine for the passed couple of months, and him having been too exhausted to bring himself to care. He leaned over the sink, his hands reaching around to find the knobs to the faucet since he couldn't keep his eyes open. His eyelids felt too heavy for it to be a feat to pull off consistently.
Erk. Tsssssssss
The water sounded like when you dive under in a swimming pool, something that wasn't exactly pleasing given his current condition. It almost encouraged him to—Splatter.
Another round of vomit splashed into the sink to be forced away by the running water. His groaned, rubbing at his aching eyes; once he was finally able to open them, the person in the mirror greeted him with darkening bags and outgrown stubble, messy dark black hair and the drool left over from seconds prior. What's...happening to me? The nightmares that had started months ago were getting worse—realer. Too real, so much so that he could still feel it when he woke, the fear. The dread. On occasions, he could still see remnants of it even after he had already awaken.
---
[Minutes Later]
After cleaning himself up along with the mess on the floor of the room, all while trying not to completely lose his mind, Edgar found himself sitting on the corner of the bed. His hands shook as he lit his first cigarette since the year before. And then a second. And then a third. His nerves were craving the cradle of nicotine as he was barred inside his thoughts and stress.
He stared at the painting propped across from him, it being of a tall, hooded figure who's cloak-like clothing draped down to the floor, it's arm outstretched and it's sharp finger pointing towards him. Just like in his dreams. Surrounding the figure was a murky, ghastly mist that was like a fog of ash. But it wasn't quite complete, and he felt his mind he dragged back through the nightmares to find the missing detail. The missing piece that would bring the horrid puzzle together.
The painting was still, but he could see it moving. Ever so slowly lowering its pointing hand, puling it back towards the chest of its cloak where the other one would soon join it. He could taste the stale must and sulfur on his tongue and in his longues, much like in his nightmares. With trembling hands, he stroked a paintbrush soaked in cigarette ash and water across empty areas of the painting, adding the jagged fingers of ominous lightning that clawed at the sky with a presence of danger.
The cloaked figure would open his cloak at last, pulling it apart at the chest to reveal something akin to the sheer vileness of an eldritch horror. The spines that jutted far from his ribcage and opened outwardly. The tortured shrieks and sensations of sheer despise that spilled from it as it opened caused his trembles to worsen as his eyes pulsated with something similar to but worse than any headache he had ever had the closer became to finishing a brush stroke.
I REMEMBER SYRUP SANDWICHES AND CRIME ALLOWANCES—
"GAH!" Edgar's heart leapt in his chest, and he nearly jumped out his skin at the sound of a phone ringing, which in turn pulled him from the tormenting visions of his nightmares. "Jesus Christ," he muttered through a shaky breath, almost gaining the nerve to laugh at his jumpiness. He sighed, shaking his head at himself and the bedside creaking as moved to get to the nightstand next to the headboard where he always left his phone when he went to bed.
However, he was puzzled to find that it wasn't anyone calling when he retrieved it, but an alarm, which doubled as a reminder. He blinked through his confusion until—
Tish's invitations! "Shit! Shit shit shiiiiit—" He panicked. And then another realization hit him. It was 5 in the evening and he was just getting up. He had no idea when he had even finally fallen asleep, but he had a pretty good idea of who was going to be pissed. He had promised her that he would throw away his "idea of some supernatural evil guy", as she put it, and help her with invitations for her big "I just got my masters in the neurosciences on my birthday and its my birthday" party. Over two hundred customized invitation cards that were supposed to be printed yesterday and picked up today. Neither of those things had happened, and what made it that much worse was that Tish's birthday landed on a Saturday unlike the previous year. And even if it did, there was no way possible to deliver all two hundred and something by tomorrow, even if he could still somehow get them printed.
"You fucking idiot, goddamn it!" Edgar groaned as he cursed at and insulted himself for letting something of such importance slipped his mind after being pestered—reminded, of it in some way or some form for months. As he was yanking on a pair of jeans leg by leg, he hopped towards the closet, stumbling over his previous pair of pants along the way when they sought to attempt to curl around his ankle.
At the rate he was going, it only took a couple of dragging minutes to get himself dressed and luckily without busting his ass while at it. He was out the door and searching his pockets for his keys to lock it, his phone pressed to his ear.
"Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system.—"
Figured as much. He groaned at the thought, quickly becoming frustrated when his keys felt as if they were being held by the bottom of his pocket. It wasn't exactly warm in North Dakota around that time of year, and having the warmth of his RV delayed by a single set of keys annoyed him. He pulled his wallet aside and finally snatched the keys out of their security, and upon doing so hastily locked the top and bottom locks. He called Tish's number again for a second time, hoping that she would at least answer, but to no avail. The phone hadn't even rang twice before he heard the voicemail again. Yep...she's pissed. Which was an understatement usually.
He was going to have to kiss a lot of ass to make up for this one, and then some.
Unfortunately, fate had long but woven a fine cloth over the painter's eyes that left him oblivious to a larger picture.
[To Be Continued]
That's when he felt it. Trickles of blood sliding down between the bridges of his nose, dripping down his chin. His stomach churned, and he threw the sheets aside, stumbling as he got out of bed and rushed towards the bathroom, only for his vision to experience a sickening blur. He could no longer contain it.
Splat! Vomit unleashed onto the floor, staining it with the late dinner that he could barely eat due to the loss of appetite that he had been experiencing. He leaned against the bathroom door heavily for support, gagging as he found the knob and shoved forward, leading to his stagger into the bathroom.
On the sink, there was already cleaning supplies that had been left out for weeks, this having become a routine for the passed couple of months, and him having been too exhausted to bring himself to care. He leaned over the sink, his hands reaching around to find the knobs to the faucet since he couldn't keep his eyes open. His eyelids felt too heavy for it to be a feat to pull off consistently.
Erk. Tsssssssss
The water sounded like when you dive under in a swimming pool, something that wasn't exactly pleasing given his current condition. It almost encouraged him to—Splatter.
Another round of vomit splashed into the sink to be forced away by the running water. His groaned, rubbing at his aching eyes; once he was finally able to open them, the person in the mirror greeted him with darkening bags and outgrown stubble, messy dark black hair and the drool left over from seconds prior. What's...happening to me? The nightmares that had started months ago were getting worse—realer. Too real, so much so that he could still feel it when he woke, the fear. The dread. On occasions, he could still see remnants of it even after he had already awaken.
---
[Minutes Later]
After cleaning himself up along with the mess on the floor of the room, all while trying not to completely lose his mind, Edgar found himself sitting on the corner of the bed. His hands shook as he lit his first cigarette since the year before. And then a second. And then a third. His nerves were craving the cradle of nicotine as he was barred inside his thoughts and stress.
He stared at the painting propped across from him, it being of a tall, hooded figure who's cloak-like clothing draped down to the floor, it's arm outstretched and it's sharp finger pointing towards him. Just like in his dreams. Surrounding the figure was a murky, ghastly mist that was like a fog of ash. But it wasn't quite complete, and he felt his mind he dragged back through the nightmares to find the missing detail. The missing piece that would bring the horrid puzzle together.
The painting was still, but he could see it moving. Ever so slowly lowering its pointing hand, puling it back towards the chest of its cloak where the other one would soon join it. He could taste the stale must and sulfur on his tongue and in his longues, much like in his nightmares. With trembling hands, he stroked a paintbrush soaked in cigarette ash and water across empty areas of the painting, adding the jagged fingers of ominous lightning that clawed at the sky with a presence of danger.
The cloaked figure would open his cloak at last, pulling it apart at the chest to reveal something akin to the sheer vileness of an eldritch horror. The spines that jutted far from his ribcage and opened outwardly. The tortured shrieks and sensations of sheer despise that spilled from it as it opened caused his trembles to worsen as his eyes pulsated with something similar to but worse than any headache he had ever had the closer became to finishing a brush stroke.
I REMEMBER SYRUP SANDWICHES AND CRIME ALLOWANCES—
"GAH!" Edgar's heart leapt in his chest, and he nearly jumped out his skin at the sound of a phone ringing, which in turn pulled him from the tormenting visions of his nightmares. "Jesus Christ," he muttered through a shaky breath, almost gaining the nerve to laugh at his jumpiness. He sighed, shaking his head at himself and the bedside creaking as moved to get to the nightstand next to the headboard where he always left his phone when he went to bed.
However, he was puzzled to find that it wasn't anyone calling when he retrieved it, but an alarm, which doubled as a reminder. He blinked through his confusion until—
Tish's invitations! "Shit! Shit shit shiiiiit—" He panicked. And then another realization hit him. It was 5 in the evening and he was just getting up. He had no idea when he had even finally fallen asleep, but he had a pretty good idea of who was going to be pissed. He had promised her that he would throw away his "idea of some supernatural evil guy", as she put it, and help her with invitations for her big "I just got my masters in the neurosciences on my birthday and its my birthday" party. Over two hundred customized invitation cards that were supposed to be printed yesterday and picked up today. Neither of those things had happened, and what made it that much worse was that Tish's birthday landed on a Saturday unlike the previous year. And even if it did, there was no way possible to deliver all two hundred and something by tomorrow, even if he could still somehow get them printed.
"You fucking idiot, goddamn it!" Edgar groaned as he cursed at and insulted himself for letting something of such importance slipped his mind after being pestered—reminded, of it in some way or some form for months. As he was yanking on a pair of jeans leg by leg, he hopped towards the closet, stumbling over his previous pair of pants along the way when they sought to attempt to curl around his ankle.
At the rate he was going, it only took a couple of dragging minutes to get himself dressed and luckily without busting his ass while at it. He was out the door and searching his pockets for his keys to lock it, his phone pressed to his ear.
"Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system.—"
Figured as much. He groaned at the thought, quickly becoming frustrated when his keys felt as if they were being held by the bottom of his pocket. It wasn't exactly warm in North Dakota around that time of year, and having the warmth of his RV delayed by a single set of keys annoyed him. He pulled his wallet aside and finally snatched the keys out of their security, and upon doing so hastily locked the top and bottom locks. He called Tish's number again for a second time, hoping that she would at least answer, but to no avail. The phone hadn't even rang twice before he heard the voicemail again. Yep...she's pissed. Which was an understatement usually.
He was going to have to kiss a lot of ass to make up for this one, and then some.
Unfortunately, fate had long but woven a fine cloth over the painter's eyes that left him oblivious to a larger picture.
[To Be Continued]