He lunges at me. I can feel the searing pain of his knife in my back. I’ve felt it before; I must get away. I twist as the knife pulls away. He readies his next attack. Spinning to face him, I bring my arm around with all of my might. My fist connects squarely with his jaw, sending him  flying backwards. I will not go down without a fight.

He tumbles head over heels, but lands back on his feet quickly. I’ve barely had time to catch my breath when he swings for me again. But this time I’m ready, stretching away from the blade’s arc before it reaches me. I want to kick it away, but it is too far beyond me, so I scramble back.

His intention is not to kill me, but to immobilize me permanently with his wounds and pain. He’s done so much damage already, but he will not rest until I am through. He must be stopped, for the sake of my health and my sanity. I summon my waning strength and fly at him, knocking the knife away as my grip closes around his throat. We land on the ground, forcing the breath out of me even as I cut it off from him. I fight with everything I have to hold on. My only thought is this: “Die, Dream. Die.”

Banging. On a door. Loudly. Harshly. Persistently.

But only in the distance. The banging, that hopeful, rescuing sound, was not here in front of her. Not at this door, the one barricading her from freedom. Whoever was out there was far, far away. She could barely hear the banging. She was probably imagining it, along with the sound of her name.

She sat up straight in the blinding darkness. She wasn’t imagining it. Faint though it was, the distant banging and the call of her name was very real. She scooted across the floor toward the door in front of her, wincing against the roped that restrained her movement. If she could just reach it…

The call was getting stronger, the banging sound louder. How many other doors were out there? How many would they try before they gave up? She needed to reach the door. Abigail rolled over onto her stomach, coughing against the dirt and crumbling cement that coated first the floor and now the gag in her mouth. Maybe the gag would prove useful and keep her from suffocating faced own on this awful floor.

She began to slide her body backward, stretching out with her feet angled toward the door. Eventually the ropes binding her wrists in place pulled taut, catching and holding both her hands and her breath. There she waited, hoping against hope that they would not give up before they reached the door she was waiting behind. A glimpse of blue was the only thing she saw when she had been dragged into this awful, pitch black space. Her captors had knocked her cold, and when she came to she knew only darkness, the ropes binding her, the cement floor, and that door.

“ABIGAIL!” There it was — her name, followed by the banging. Much closer this time. Pounding right behind her. She kicked her feet as hard as she could against the door. The muffled vibration seemed to be insignificant at first, but Abigail could not give up. The sound seemed to get through though, and the screaming outside increased.

Banging. On a door. Loudly. Harshly. Persistently.

And finally, the door opened behind her. Abigail turned her head. Her eyes caught that glimpse of blue again — the wonderful sight of freedom.

As a young girl, Francesca was at home pretty much all the time. She would sit at home and read — she loved to read. But she also loved to go out and do stuff with people, as energetic teenage girls are wont to do. However, despite her energy, Francesca wasn’t the most socially adept of girls, so she spent most of her time in her room, stretched out on her bed, listening to music or reading, and wishing she had somewhere to go.

As an adult, Francesca was a different story. She was rarely at home. Having finally mastered the art of networking and social activities, she often spent most of her time out at gatherings and events. She enjoyed them and was committed to the relationships she had developed, but at the same time she missed the good old days of quiet evenings with some new music and a good book. She sometimes wished she could stay home and read all these wonderful books she’d collected and listen to this excellent music she’d heard about, but not yet actually heard.

Such is the life of the child and the adult.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

I’m awake. Sort of. It’s early yet, but I know I have a big day today. Still, I don’t want to move. I reach my , feeling past various objects on my nightstand to reach my alarm, and hit the snooze button. Temporarily satisfied, I turn back away from the alarm. It’s too early to even groan.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Ugh. It’s still too dark. It’s still too early. I’m still not ready. I don’t turn over any more than absolutely necessary to reach the alarm. I hit the snooze again, then curl the alarm close to me in the bed. At least this way it will be easily within reach when it goes off again. Maybe then I’ll be ready.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Thankfully the alarm is now right beside me; I barely have to move to reach the snooze button this time. Except… I mash the button again and again, but to no avail. The noise continues to sound. What is wrong with this thing? Oh… yeah. That’s not the alarm lying at my elbow. Last night, in my infinite wisdom, I set a second alarm. Across the room. Crap. It’s still too early for this.

Yes, I am up; I could use the momentum to get started on my day. But all I can think about is how cold the air and the floor are, and I crawl back under the covers.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

There it goes again.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Nothing seems to be able to stop that noise.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Where is it coming from this time?

Beep! Beep! Beep!
Beep! Beep! Beep!

Daylight. Oh joy. I’ve slept through my alarm again. One of these days I’m going to figure out how that keeps happening — but today, I don’t have time. I’ve been dreaming, and I’m already running late.

Everything was dark. Silent. Oddly peaceful. She was resting, seemingly floating in an ethereal night. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear. Nothing but the feeling of nothingness.

Slowly something began to change. Nothing new appeared; just a minuscule but expanding sense of — something. She couldn’t put her finger on it. She couldn’t even be sure that it was anything more than her mind playing tricks in the dark. But the figment of her imagination continued to grow. It was moving.

And it was moving her. No longer floating, she suddenly realized that the presence — whatever it was — was drawing her in. She was without a doubt being pulled, from the inside it seemed, directly toward this entity filling up the black expanse around her. And it frightened her.

She began to struggle against it. She tried to run; but her feet were suddenly heavy as lead. She tried to pull her hands and arms free from the empending force, but they seemed to be trapped in a vise-like grip. She attempted to scream, to grunt, to even draw a full breath — all to no avail. There was no sound. There was no escape. There was only the mass enveloping her completely.

“Mommy, are you awake?” Her eyes suddenly flew open to see the form of her son standing beside her bed. “What’s the matter, baby?” “I woke up,” he said simply. She breathed a bemused sigh of relief. “Alright, come here.” She scooted over in the bed to give him room. He crawled under the covers. She wrapped her arms around him, kissed the top of his head, and settled her heart rate down so they both could get back to sleep.

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Check out the Notes from the Author page for a little more about this poem.