Wrists

I dreamt of wrists.

Giant, hulking and pale, white wrists with dark veins swollen with blood floated up above me.

The sense of terror was palpable, the kind of visceral knowing you can only have in dreams, when your surroundings don’t make sense but you know something terrible is going to happen. I knew something terrible was coming, something which would hurt me, and I was afraid.

Then above me amongst those monstrous appendages, those prescient spectres looming over me, was a blade.

I dreamt of wrists, a rusty chipped blade slashing them, slicing their thin white skins deep in long horrible jagged paths.

Thick blood gushed out like the sea, and poured down upon me. It coated me and was cold as ice, and I knew that it was death. I could feel it pooling and its level slowly rising. It sloshed back and forth around my feet. My ankles, then my knees, then my waist. The blood rose ever higher and filled my tiny cage.

As the icy liquid slowly rose above my neck and reached my mouth, I knew I was going to die. I looked up and let out one final horrified sound as the blood covered my open eyes.

The sound of my scream melded with that of my wife, the scream which awoke me. It echoed down the hallway from the bathroom, from her final resting place in the bathtub. The sound mixed with that of water, overflowing and splashing onto the floor, itself mixed with the blood from her wrists.

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