The journal is the last thing I remember before going to sleep. Filled with nights and weeks of dreams, I hope that it will help me lucid dream, because my controlling my dreams I hope to experience something that people can only ever imagine.
My left hand pokes out of the covers tonight, like a worm when the rain has finally come. The pale pink fingers reveal themselves to the empty bedroom and shriek their paltry significance out.
Something makes my bed creak and I ignore it. The phenomenon has been happening for the past two weeks, and I often hear the same sound in my dreams. This time however, the creak sounds different. This time it sounds persistent. And something comes out from under my bed.
I'm not nervous, because I know I can control this. It's all up to my mind, after all. The thing that comes out is a hand. An average-sized hand that has no distinguishable colour, due to the darkness of my bedroom.
The hand gives a tentative tap on my finger, and emanates hissing sound from the friction against my bed as it quickly retracts. My lips twist upwards like the make-up on a clown as I give a slight chuckle at this animal-like approach to me.
Feeling bold, I lower my hand over the bed, exposing my naked wrist and part of my forearm. It dangles there, and I wait. I twitch my fingers as if I were calling a cat to come and to my delight, something touches my index finger right on the fingertip.
The thing under my bed slowly moves its hand upwards like a snake, the fingers sending shivers up my arm as they brush ever-so-lightly against the back of my tingling hand. I realise that I'm biting the corner of my lip and release the hold my teeth have on it.
The hand feels rough, like the kind of brown paper people use when packing things into a box, to make sure their possessions don't crash and break. Each finger seems to have a mind of its own, meandering across the back of my hand and inching into my soft and sleepy palm.
A breath of amazement seeps through my mouth and into the air above me, the only sound I can hear apart from the beat-beat-beat of my heart in my ears. Now is the moment. Now is the time for me to move as well.
My fingers give minuscule trembles as I mold my hand to fit its', and my chest seems to flutter as the thing under my bed does the same. In the span of a couple eternal seconds we are holding each other hand in hand, like a kind of upside-down handshake.
This new position allows my thumb to trace four distinct ridges along the back of its' hand, the knuckles bumpy. It reminds me of the bumps you get when wallpaper is put on crooked. The thing's nails are long and cool, like ivory basking in the sun that was my warm wrist. The hand moves around mine again, and the fingers wrap above my own hand and hold the end of my forearm with a solid but gentle hold.
I'm thinking of starting a conversation with it when- shick. Pain hot enough to melt surrounds my wrist in a ring, and an object thuds mushily to the ground. I try to flex my hand but can't. There is no sound from the thing under my bed, nothing but empty laughter that drives into my bones and chest.
I open my eyes and look down, screaming at the severed hand on my bedroom floor and the newly-made stump of my wrist still encircled by the demon's claws, but I don't wake up.
This was inspired by a one-stanza poem-ish thing I wrote under the same title
It's the place where all of my demons hide
They prick and pinch you all through the night
And only when you realise that something's not right
It's already too late to put up a fight