Friday, May 4, 2012

The History of Boy's Love

The Shah has fallen.

Again and again, Carter let his eyes scan over the first sentence of the final paragraph, the paper trembling in his hand. The ongoing conflict in Iran had intensified over the years, but the President would've never guessed that it could escalate so drastically. He'd done his best; his best CIA agents had spent months training the SAVAK and ample arms had been supplied to aid the Shah's regime. Still, it appeared as though they had been no match for the Muslim leader and their revolution.

Cursing under his breath, he let the paper go and watched it slide back onto the expensive mahogany table's surface, where it lay untouched for the longest time. Thrusting out a deep sigh, Carter buried his head in his hands, elbows propped on the desk. This was his biggest defeat up to date as US President- a defeat for US politics that would go doubt in history. The mere thought of that humiliation made his stomach tighten. 

"What should I do...?" He groaned to himself, completely unaware that, in the meantime, the door had opened and two very distinct characters had joined him. The rest happen simultaneously; he felt fingers so tenderly lacing through his hair and his ears perked at the sound of the door shutting and locking into place. Slowly, the brunette man raised his head, eyes still downcast. He knew exactly who was behind him, attempting to soothe him with tender niceties. He knew even before the man's soft voice reached his ear.

"Mister President..."

The tone of voice was soft and raspy, like a sultry breeze to his skin. If anyone in the world had the epitome of a bedroom voice, then it was Cyrus Vance. Foreign Minister Vance, the dove of the Carter Administration. The brunette swallowed audibly as that dove's body pressed against his body, arms wrapping around his shoulders and face buried in his hair. There was something particularly intimate about Vance's embraces, particularly because he could feel the man's heart thump against his back, even through the layers of expensive Italian suit.

"The Russians are probably throwing a party in Moscow."

Carter didn't have to look up to know who this sneering, demeaning voice belonged to, but something compelled him to raise his eyes anyway. Eyes widened in a meekly hurt expression, the President regarded the second major member of his administration; Brzezińsk. Zbigniew Kazimierz Brzezińsk, the hawk of US politics. His sharp, chiseled face, unmistakably Eastern European, bore a serious, utterly dignified expression. The image made Carter's skin crawl in the most delightful of ways. Brzezińsk was a cruel bastard, with cold blue eyes to match his heartless personality. It was no secret that the Pole doubted the President's competence, particularly with regard to Vance' influence.

The two couldn't be more different. Behind him was a dove, with fair golden hair and a persona that emitted a ridiculously gentle, sweet warmth. Across the room stood the proud, strong hawk, calculating and eerily calm. Though his face was devoid of any emotion than calm contempt, Brzezínksi harboured a terrifying amount of aggressive potential within him, which could only be guessed when he opened his infamous anti-Communist rhetoric.

"Leave the President be! It was the right decision to stay out of that. You have no right to talk to him like that."

"It's it just like you to applaud cowardice?"

It was always this way with those two. Carter found himself, once again, stuck between the fronts within his own office. It was a strong parallel to the animal kingdom, in some convoluted way. The dove was going to prove himself by facing the hawk, and had managed to keep up, much to everyone's surprise. No matter who won the primal competition, Carter knew one thing: He was going down. He was the prize. He was the prey.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

The Poem

[Thank you for all your support, even after such a long and dreary pause. I will be concentrating on short stories at the moment, as I have been inspired by work of Margaret Atwood. I am still searching to find, develop, expand and eventually perfect my style of writing~<3]

I think that when I first decided to write, I was much younger. In elementary school, we all wrote poems by ourselves; the first product of our creative young minds. For whatever twisted reason, I had chosen the terrorist attacks as a topic, and formed a few short, patriotic lines emphasizing the greatness of the country I lived in and the fearlessness with which we would pursue our enemies to satisfy the nation-wide vendetta. The people cried out for blood and I, a mere school child with about as much common sense and life experience as a piece of toast, fanned the fire (at least among the school faculty) with my words. My home-room teacher was delighted and, for reasons I couldn't fathom at the time, asked me to follow her out of the room one day.

I walked behind her quickly, basking in the glory of my conquest. Whilst I did not know yet what was to await me in the famed principal's office, I knew that it was certainly nothing negative. She didn't appear cross with me, nor had I done anything wrong (that I could think of). As nearly every attentive child, I loved the extra attention I got from adults, and so I stuck to her heels loyally like an excited, yet well-trained puppy. The walk there is slightly blurred in my memory, but I distinctly remember the office itself. It was smaller than I had imagined (I was only at the reception area, and not in the office itself, mind you) and filled to the brim with tall metal file cabinets. The stern secretary sat at the front desk and smiled at me. It was a smile I will never forget, quite possibly because it was the only time I ever remember seeing her smile at all. She certainly wasn't a cruel woman, by any means, but she was strict, or at least that's how I perceived her as a child. I must admit, the only times I managed to see or talk to her, was when she was on duty to watch us whenever our teacher couldn't manage, and that usually meant that she would snap at me to 'get busy' with my work or stop talking.

At the time, I was a very open child. I say 'open' because I want to avoid the term 'hyperactive', although I had been accused of being just that on quite a few occasions. No, no, my psychologist said, I am not hyperactive, nor do I lack the ability to pay attention. Moreover, I was selective about the things I chose to pay attention to. He used words like 'highly intelligent', for what its worth, but also threw in little phrases like 'passive-aggressive', which I would later discover from the unconcerned explanations of my mother. I learned a great deal about my own past from her, almost as though it were a movie. I like to compare my own life to a movie I watched as a child and didn't understand, then rewatched with my mother as an adult, finally able to grasp certain things that had been strange or simply overlooked before.

With the exception of that acknowledging smile, I was ignored for a few moments, as per usual. The adults would have their normal, adult conversations, several feet over my head, and I, the child, entertain myself by looking around the room. I spied with my little eye several things that were green, others that were red and many, many things in gray tones. Then, I gave up the 'I Spy' game because I determined that playing it silently with one's self was stupid and pointless. Even then, I was, to a certain degree, rather efficient. Then, I distracted myself by straining to listen in on what they were talking about, only to find that they had finished, and it was time for my big moment.

This 'big moment' was something I am liable to never forget, no matter how silly it feels in retrospect. The secretary, Miss Donna, handed me the yellowish, thinly paper that we always wrote on, and I recognized my big, jagged handwriting immediately. I had desperately tried to match my letters to the pale blue and red lines that decorated the sheet, but it still never looked like the template letters that we had always practiced with the school year before with Miss Becky. After that moment of surprise had set in, as my short attention span and memory had completely obliterated any trace of the poem, seeing as how it had been an entire week prior to this little show, I asked what I was supposed to do and was then promptly ushered to the desk.

I was given my instructions and, heart throbbing in my chest, I watched Miss Donna press the intercom button. This was the old me. Unlike the recluse and paranoid young woman writing down these very memories, the small poet was all too eager to share her work. I read my poem aloud as soon as the light flashed, pronouncing every syllable slowly and accurately, as my teacher had always taught us to do. I had never read my own work aloud, so it took a moment or two to get the rhythm just right. My poem was short and choppy, nothing like the one I chosen for our poem-themed "show and tell" earlier that month.  May by Sara Teasdale was a sweet work- the kind of poem that you read once in your childhood and somehow manage to remember bits and pieces of even in adulthood.
 My poem was nothing like May. Figuratively drunk with the power of being able to speak over the intercom system and impress people older than myself, little did I know that I would use my 'talent' to write about this very experience years later. This was the first time I had produced anything creative. It was the first time a product of my imagination had been able to manifest itself into something identifiable for someone other than myself. And the first piece of work I had ever grown to truly hate.

After I finished reading the poem, I was escorted back to the room by my teacher, all smiles. Everyone had heard me read my poem, from the students to the teachers and even the principal. I had produced something independently, individually, and they had paid attention to it (voluntarily or not). Nothing happened after that, in case my ambiguous wording implied that I had grown to hate my work because of some sort of criticism.

No, I'm afraid I have to disappoint. This was one of the few (possibly the only product of my brain) that did not undergo any sort of open scrutiny. I received no snide remark or constructive criticism, only a few 'congrats' and my peer's awe at the fact that it had been my voice over the intercom system that fateful morning. Just as quickly as the fame and pride washed over me like a wave, it disappeared again, as though being tugged away by an impatient moon. The only thing that remained was my poem, written in hideously pointy and aggressive handwriting spilling over pale blue and red lines on faded yellowish paper.  On the top, next to my equally hideously pointed name, was a sticker that portrayed a brown and white puppy in shorts and a T-shirt, wearing a baseball cap and smiling as happily as a dog could ever smile. This was one of those 'good job' stickers.

That piece of shit got a 'good job' sticker.
[To be Continued...]

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Sam and Delilah [Chapter 3]

Dinner had never been so awkward. As the three young adults sat around the small kitchen table, suffocated in an unnatural silence, Samantha couldn’t help but swallow audibly. It felt as though a thick lump had been growing within her throat, pulsating painfully with her rapid heartbeat. Whilst being with Delilah, even with their little encounter in the museum, hadn’t been awkward as such, the addition of Sam’s boyfriend made the whole atmosphere tense. 


Nothing serious had happened between Sam and Delilah, after all. There was no kiss, no soft-spoken word. They had just grazed fingers, perhaps even by accident. Why, then, did she feel such a pressing guilt that made it impossible to accept having the two of them in the same room? Usually, Sam played the otherwise uncharacteristic role of the talkative host. On any other occasion, she would find something for the others to comment on; something that they, in the faintest, had in common. This time, however, there was nothing she could conjure up from her bag of tricks. Too ashamed to even look up at them, she kept her beautiful blue eyes plastered on the half-eaten mashed potatoes, swirling them around awkwardly in a circle. 

Whilst Sam picked at her food unhappily, a sort of silent conversation went on between Delilah and Matthew, unseen by the dark-haired girl between them. Delilah stared at the boy who occupied the metal fold-out chair that usually stood in the bathroom, green eyes narrowed to a skeptical state. She, from time to time, would take her glass of water and sip it quietly, but never really stopped looking away. It was no different with Matthew. Take a bit, stare. Take a sip, stare. 

It all started, this immense tension and horrid noiselessness, only moments before. It had been a harmless conversation as such, in which the brunette male attempted to get to know his girlfriend’s roommate just a little better. There were laughs and an exchanging of different adolescent stories, accompanied by filthy jokes or snarky comments. All was fine up until that fateful moment, when Matthew decided to get personal. 

“So Delilah, do you have a boyfriend?”
“I can’t imagine why not. Sam tells me all about you and you’re obviously not too shy.”
“Well, what can I say?”
“You’re not one of those queers, are you?”

Silence hit. In a split second, Delilah’s face went from amused to dead serious. Matthew realized his mistake but was far too thick-headed to take it back, let alone apologize. Sam just shrunk back, mortified and bemused. She had, come to think of it, seen Delilah bring women in and out of the apartment on several occasions but never really thought anything of it. She had felt the spark in the moment when their hands touched, thought something of it, but ferociously denied the significance within her mind. After all, how was she to know that it was mutual and not just her bicurious pining, if even that?

Now, nearly ten minutes later, not another word was said. Instead, their silent debate went on heatedly in a room where one could hear a pin drop and clatter.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re a bigot.”
“If I’d have known, I would’ve never let her move in with you.”
“She’s too good for you.” 

Abruptly, Delilah stood. Pulling a cigarette from the pack on the window sill behind her, she slid from the table and began to walk towards the balcony. Fresh air. The sudden gust of crisp air that greeted her when she opened the door was refreshing and made her realize just how hot and stuffy it had been in the kitchen that entire time. It was as though the anger both Matthew and Delilah felt had somehow made the room temperature rise to something awful. Wiping the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her arm, Delilah shot one last glance to the incriminating person right across the room. 
His eyes spoke loud and clear:
“Stay away from my girlfriend.”
So did Delilah’s:
“Make me.”

Friday, July 22, 2011

Sam and Delilah [Chapter Two]

A cold wind blew against the two dainty figures as they hurried out of the subway station, ascending dirtied concrete stairs until they reached the surface.  The sidewalk was full of pedestrians, all of whom looked as though they worked in some very official, very important place. Sam and Delilah stuck out from the masses, each dressed in their own, casual manner and not at all mingling with the business-suit clad masses.  
Months passed by quickly in the two room apartment. As different as the girls were from one another, they had grown close. Where Sam’s jogging routine had once seemed laughable to Delilah, she now encouraged her roommate or even accompanied her on occasion. On the same note, Sam had dismissed her initial dislike for Delilah’s particular sense of fashion and even let the eccentric red-head advise her on their rare (but all the more enjoyable) shopping tours. 
Dry, brown leaves cracked beneath their boots as they hurried to their destination; an art gallery in the middle of the city. Both the girls were interested in art. Sam studied Art History as a major and Delilah had a blatant love for anything provocative or emotional. Therefore, the new gallery seemed like the person place for an outing. Given the mass of exams the last few weeks, they hadn’t actually had a chance to spend much time together, despite sharing the cramped apartment. 
“And then I told that idiot to get out of my face. Can you believe him? I mean, it was just once, right?” 
Coffee-to-go in one hand and cigarette in the other, Delilah looked like the type of girl that was always on the run. Upon first glance, she was a busy and important student. In truth, Samantha knew that she hardly went to her seminars and went out nearly every night. Though she had been greatly bothered by the constant visits from various man and women of every imaginable age group, Sam had learned to deal with it. When such visits did occur, she simply put on headphones to block out any obscene sounds or went outside to phone her boyfriend. 
“Oh… No way. What a dork.” She hesitantly agreed, shrugging her shoulders half-heartedly. It was always easier to simply fake a smile and pretend, when it came to Delilah’s precarious lifestyle. She wasn’t in any position to criticize her roommate and avoiding confrontation just seemed like the most intelligent way to go about things. Content with the notion that her companion accepted her agreeing statement, Sam directed her attention to the large building ahead- the gallery. 
Delilah stubbed her cigarette out on a nearby trashcan and tossed away her half-empty coffee, shrugging at the apparent idiocy of her one-night-stand. The two girls hurried inside the towering structure before them in order to escape the biting cold. Surprisingly, there weren’t all too many people wandering the spacious halls, which left the students with their much needed privacy. After hanging their thick coats in the wardrobe (both of which were a tad thin for late autumn but served more as a fashion statement than warmth), they set out to soak up as much culture as possible before the place closed. 
After nearly two hours, they had skimmed over every last painting, sculpture and scribble. Delilah found herself sitting in a tiny, dark room that was sparsely furnished with a single cushioned bench. Tightly surrounded by black walls, she sat beside Sam. The two bathed in the glow of the movie projection on the front wall, only half-paying attention and half-resting from scurrying around.  The film was in black and white, spoken in French with English subtitles, and portrayed the odd mating habits of various animals, such as sea horses or octopi. It was more of a documentary and hardly had anything to do with ‘art’, as far as Delilah was concerned. Still, she was captivated by the abnormality of seeing an octopus mate by sticking a special tentacle into a female octopus’ respiratory tube. 
When that segment was over and the mating of jellyfish was shown, her thoughts drifted even further away from the actual movie. Since the dawn of time, people had contemplated over the terms ‘normality’ and ‘love’. Her lifestyle and perspective of ‘love’ wasn’t exactly ‘normal’ either, albeit more orthodox than poking her tentacle in her partner’s respiratory tube or laying her eggs in a male’s pouch. 

On that notion, her gaze shifted to Sam, who sat to her right and appeared to be captivated by the jellyfish dancing on screen. Her radiant blue eyes reflected the creatures, serving as shimmering, curved mirrors. Delilah felt her heart throb within her chest, threatening to burst out of her body at any given second. Her own eyes jumped all over her companion’s face, tracing every shadow that was cast in the dim lighting. Every word spoken on screen seemed to slow down, drowning out until Delilah could hear nothing but Sam’s breathing and heartbeat.
Slowly, she shifted. Slender fingers glided over the smooth surface of the bench beneath them, until certain warmth crept over her skin. In the darkness, she had inched over until her fingertips just barely grazed the back of Sam’s hand. Delilah felt her mouth go impossibly dry, rendered utterly helpless by something that was, in any case, completely juvenile and meaningless. 
Still, Sam didn’t pull her hand away.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Sam and Delilah [Additional News]

I created and posted this video on Youtube, in hopes of gaining a bit of attention to it.
It is undoubtedly nothing special but I felt the distinct need to capture my inspiration in something visual, for further reference.
Killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.

I'd like to offer my thanks to my friends once more, for their support. My dear friend Janine even took the pictures seen in the video with one helluva gash in her finger, without a single complaint. I honestly don't know how I would survive without these people.

On an added note, as you may have noticed in the video, I have finally decided upon a penname of sorts. COM, or 'CryOhMy'. It's a mixture between a particular horse on the Sopranos, in case anyone remembers, and Dacryphilia, I suppose. It seemed like something catchy.


Thursday, June 2, 2011

Sam and Delilah

After an agonizingly long dry-spell, I believe I've managed to regain my lost inspiration; my muse; my soul. I'd like to thank my dearest friends from the bottom of my heart for this refreshing breath of life. An inexplicable feeling rushes through my body now and I feel more alive than I believe I ever have, in terms of creativity. This story, which until further notice will simply be named "Delilah and Sam." marks the turn of a new era. It is a homosexual romance that I devised over the hours this fine June afternoon and is the first work that I will officially submit. Whilst it will not actually be entered in the Christopher Street Day short story contest, I do hope that they will post it on their website. (Because it is not in German, it can't be submitted. Still, the manager(s) were very kind and offered, should they like it, to present it at various cities in the event and/or post it online.) This story, while it may not be a traditional "short story" anymore, follows the relationship of two young women who become roommates after Samantha enrolls in an (unnamed) university and moves to a new city and ends up living shoulder-to-shoulder with the precarious and destructive Delilah. As the story unfolds, it comes clear that both girls have their burden and skeletons in their closets. Still, the longing for understanding and security fuel a classic love-against-the-odds.

Chapter One
At that very moment, trillions of things were happening. Someone was falling in love. Someone’s heart was beginning to break. Someone’s heart was beginning to mend. Someone’s heart shattered beyond repair. A baby was born. Someone’s uncle passed away. Someone was falling asleep whilst someone else was awakening, all in the same city.
One woman was stepping off a bus. She stopped for a moment as the double doors closed behind her and took a moment to glance around. Before her stood a façade of old houses, most of them restored to look as they had before second world war. Whilst they had been mended, she couldn’t help but imagine that this renewal somehow robbed the bricks of their individuality. Insofar  they had personality. It seemed a tad odd, to say the least, thinking about the persona a rock might have, but Sam was a bit of a dreamer. Before she could even realize what was going on around her, the second bus pulled up behind her and several people brushed passed her to go on their way. Fifteen minutes had passed, apparently, as the bus came at such intervals. This, she knew from her mother. Sam  was far too young to remember actually living there; she had been nearly a year old. Twenty years passed since then and a quick glance at her watch confirmed that the bus plan at not changed since then.
At the same time the girl stared at a brick wall, contemplating its cognitive functions or lack thereof, another young woman was sitting in her apartment only a block away. The late summer sun shone brightly in the living room, warming the wood-panel flooring below her bare feet. She loved the large windows. She loved her apartment. [-describes apartment-]
Delilah wandered to the tiny balcony, lighting a pristine, white Pal Mall cigarette and inhaling deeply. Her attention fell on the pansies below in the narrow box, her eyes narrowing behind her faux Ray Ban’s. Who was that flower trying to kid? Sure, it looked cute; but that was all it was. It was laughably temporary and worthless. She leaned over, thrusting a stream of grey, wafting smoke against the frail petals. 
Eyes cast to the painted clay ashtray, a fond smile slid on her painted lips. She used to be a pansy; ‘cute’ and senseless. The mere thought brought up a mocking laugh that she spat out as though with noticeable disgust. The stringy mutt-blonde hair was cut, washed and dyed red. She was no longer short and chubby but simply small in size; delicate as opposed to frumpy. Vibrant, skillfully applied makeup decorated her face instead of acne.  Her previously blunt and bushy eyebrows were sculpted, arched and high, giving her a proud appearance and larger eyes.
[possible filler]
Half an hour passed by since a certain girl got off the bus, whilst another girl warmed her bare feet in the glass-filtered sun. The doorbell rang. Delilah got up to press the intercom button after reluctantly setting her novel down with the pages pressed on the floor. She rarely ever used bookmarks, which one could see by the book’s spine; strained and creased from this habit.
“Yes?” She leaned in to speak to the cream-coloured box, though she knew who she was speaking to before hearing the timid voice on the other end.
“Uh… Hello. It’s Samantha. We talked on the phone?”
Without another word, Delilah pressed the second button, which triggered a very nerve-wrecking buzzing noise, allowing her new roommate to enter the complex. She opened her door and leaned against the thick white frame, running a hand through her pixie-style hair over and over until it was frayed and askew. Having gotten it shortened just the other day, she couldn’t help but toy with it at any given second, as though it were completely alien, albeit only an inch shorter than before.
Soon, the distinct rustling of a person carrying many bags echoed through the halls, accompanied by a soft panting noise. Slowly, a dark head bobbed into view, then her baggage-laden body. She was a good head taller than Delilah, her body presumably slender but hidden under an unflatteringly baggy and plain T-shirt. “Looks heavy.” The redhead commented, quirking her arched brow, though she made no move to actually assist Sam.
Her companion lifted her head up, gazing up at Delilah, who in turn felt her breath hitch in her throat. The bluest eyes imaginable met her own, positioned on either side of a very finely curved, dainty nose. Compelled as she was to speak, she couldn’t. Her attention was frozen, the icy colour and intensity far too fascinating. Was this the feeling Romeo got when first setting eyes on Juliet? When Basil first saw Dorian Gray?
The silence and thick heat hung around them like a wet towel. Seconds dragged on agonizingly, matched rhythmically by a dog’s barking somewhere outside. Sam, unnerved by the petite female’s abrupt, inexplicable change in behavior, was the first to speak . “So… I’m here.” It was possibly the lamest thing she could think of and the only thing her vocal chords could manage. Finally, she squatted down and rid her shoulders of the awesome weight of two duffle bags and a backpack.
Meanwhile, Delilah had come back down to Earth and even grabbed one of the monstrous bags, tugging it inside clumsily. “So how do you like it here?” The typical get-to-know-each-other-chitchat was gratuitous, as they had already spoken on the phone and kept in contact via email for the last two months, ever since Sam received her letter of acceptance to her first university of choice. This was their first face-to-face conversation nonetheless, which was partially why it was so ungainly. By this time, Delilah had completely recovered from her initial shock, bombarding Sam with a plethora of questions before she even had a chance to respond to the first.
“So, you said you have a boyfriend, right?” Sam couldn’t escape her intent gaze, tugging the remaining two bags inside and shutting the door. Each one weighed roughly twenty kilos and required a strain that had become visible on her face in the form of a thin sheet of perspiration. Her chest rising and falling rapidly as she leaned against the brightly painted green wall to catch her breath, the interrogation continuing mercilessly. “So this is like a long-distance thing now, huh? He’s probably jaded, amiright?” Her voice drifted off but was still clearly audible as Delilah walked to the kitchen.

Sunday, February 6, 2011


Due to my lack of inspiration mixed with a horrid amount of schoolwork, I haven't been able to complete the third chapter of Caring for Julian just yet. I made the mistake long ago when I first started the story of simply skipping this chapter because I found everything that would happen between the second and fourth to be... well.. uninteresting to write.

Nevertheless, I feel the need to make this belated update and will instead post a short story. This little excerpt literally came to me in a dream. My dreams are often very odd and even unnerving. If I remember them, then with great detail. If not, then it as though I'd never dreamt at all.
Without further senseless chit-chat;

Untitled Dream #1:

Awakening was horribly similar to falling from what felt like a three story building. Her whole body jerked as though she’d hit hard pavement, although she quickly realized that nothing of the sort had happened; she was simply lying in bed. This would’ve been a fairly ordinary occurrence, had it not been for the fact that she was in a place she’d never seen before.
Through the thick darkness, she could still make out the general structure of the room; at what angle the wall should be tilted or where the window should’ve been. Everything was strange and unfamiliar. The biting smell of turpentine flooded her nostrils and strung within her head, triggering a pained cough. A dizzy sensation swept over her mind and, if only for a brief moment, she closed her eyes to try to think clearly. The thumping of her heart was literally the only thing that could be heard for the longest time in the eerie silence.
Smells slowly mixed together within the room, as though it were very crowded. Cigar smoke, peppermint candies, and the distinct smells of perfumed makeup surrounded her and seemed to cover her face like a damp towel. It became harder and harder to breathe. Despite this sensation of being crowded, there was another notion of dreadful loneliness that was as striking as it was inexplicable.
Seconds seemed like an eternity. She simply sat there with her eyes closed; too afraid to even take a peek at the darkness that consumed her. It was this endearingly childish notion that, if she should manage to keep any horrid creatures out of her sight, nothing would happen to her in this cold, bizarre place.
Footsteps could be heard from far across the room. The apparently wooden floorboards creaked in tune with the slow stride. Her heard quickened, skipping a beat or two. Her fingers clutched the thin blanket tightly, knuckles turning white. Her muscles clenched. A thick lump formed in her throat. She dared not swallow, for fear of making any noise and bringing attention to herself. Motionless, she lay there, waiting.
The creaking was louder, the sound changing until it became more like an agonized wail. The closer the noises got, the slower they seemed. It was though time itself was halting. Silence followed. She could feel the presence of this unknown other being, hovering just a few inches from the flimsy blanket she’d clung to for what seemed like years. Her only source of protection consisted of a bit of woven cotton.
This position was kept for a while longer. Her muscles throbbed and her heart ached from its consistent, rapid pace. „There, there.“  The very voice sent abhorrent shivers down her spine. It was unlike anything she’d ever heard before; chilling, frightening and appalling. The gender of the speaker was indescribable. It was as though several demonic creatures were hissing these words all at once, each with their own pitch and tone. As much as she wanted to maintain her feeble position and simply wish the being away, she knew she couldn’t. Had it wanted to harm her, it would’ve surely down so already?
Mustering up the last bit of what seemed like courage in her body, she hesitantly opened her eyes. Immediately, she wish she hadn’t.  The figure that stood next to the tiny bed was, in her opinion, the epitome of terrifying.
The first thing that caught her gaze was its mouth; a large grin composed of razor sharp canines, tainted with a tint of yellow but dangerous nonetheless. The inhuman curve and size made her visibly cringe. Next, its general body structure came into view. As her eyes adjusted to the perpetual darkness, she could take in more and more details. The body was sickeningly thin. No matter where she averted her eyes, bones jutted out from beneath the shadowy skin. The creature, whatever it may have been, didn’t appear to have any eyes. Despite this, she could feel it staring at her with great intent.
As she watched ist unmoving form, the fear was gradually depleting. For whatever reason, there was a significant familiarity with this being that, although she couldn’t explain it, was appreciated whilst in such an unfamiliar place. Finally swallowing the dry clot in the back of her throat, she moved to an upright sitting position, peering at it. Although she desperately wanted to, she couldn’t speak.
You want to know who I am?
The multi-voiced hissing response made her stomach clench up once more. It was such a hideous, revolting sound. Slowly, she nodded. She braced herself for another grotesque reply but received only silence in return. Instead, it pointed to a window. Had it always been there? No, she was rather sure that the room had been stark black when she had first awoken. Before she could fathom the distinct lack of logic behind the whole display, the glass of the window began to melt. In the beginning, it looked as though someone were pouring a thick, plasma-liquid over the panels; like clear honey.  She watched it for a while, bewildered. The substance sluggishly slid down the walls and on the floor, allowing a harsh wind to violate the room. It bit at her face and arms and she pulled the thin blanket even closer, glancing to the dark figure once more.
Eyes are the mirror to the soul.“
That repulsive voice. She’d heard that phrase in many different places. Just as she was able to reason with herself and attempt to silently ask yet another question, she realized that the creature was gone. Much like nearly every other night, it had simply departed without giving much in the direction of a helpful answer. Snow fluttered in from the cavity in the wall, from which now the windowpane had also melted.

My reason for stopping here is rather blunt and not as creavity or mindful as many people would assume; the dream simply stopped there. I didn't want to add any unnecessary details. Frankly, I wanted to write down the dream in the exact same way as I experienced it. 
Thank you for your time~