My first full Boosh fic, exciting :) The DrWho crossovers have finished but may return, who knows, not even I do!
This story is rather dark and grisly, inspired by Darren Shan's the Demonata series, and contains a lot of violence and reference to death and injury.
The characters in no way are harmed as it is all nightmares and dreams but you have been warned, this is rather a bloodthirsty fic. A darker side to my writing is shining through with this.
Hopefully you will enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing it. Fingers crossed
Disclaimer: All things Boosh belong to Barratt and Fielding
The first threat
He wakes in the night drenched in sweat, the moonlight seeping through a split in his blinds drowning the bedroom in an eerie light. His breathing is faster, alarming, quick and sharp. As soon as he sits up it dawns on him he is in the safety of his room all is calm and quiet once again, his heart beat returns to normal but he can't get rid of the shakes in his hands, the pins and needles in his fingers and the fear in his mind of going back to sleep.
He peels the covers off his hot sweaty body and un-tangles his feet with the sheets letting them rest on the carpeted floor. He sits silently for a while with his head in his hands just thinking and breathing. Trying to push the images of bloodshed from his mind, he sees bodies piled limply surrounded in a pool of sticky blood. He is knelt at the pool with his hands pressed into the mess, covered in other people's blood, the stench drifts towards his nostrils. He inhales deeply and vomits almost instantly in his imagination. Then he snaps back to reality and tells himself it was just a dream and retreats to the kitchen for a drink.
The cold air from the open fridge door cools his hot body a little, his feet are frozen from the icy kitchen tiles but his fingers are sticky and clammy. He reaches for a bottle not caring what's inside and drinks it greedily until it is empty. He slams the door to the fridge and throws the bottle onto the counter not caring if he wakes anyone else up, he'd rather have them yelling at him for waking them at three in the morning than retreat back to his bedroom alone, to be tormented once again by the nightmare he had woken from only minutes before.
But no one comes; they are all heavy sleepers and remain in their beds. He contemplates smashing a plate against the wall to wake them fully but finally decides against it and alone he remains with his thoughts and a few disturbing mental images.
Back in his bedroom he opens a window and slides his blinds up a short way to ensure the draft of night air enters his room swiftly. He flicks on his bedroom light and sets to work on sorting out his bed sheets, which he discards for a fresh one that isn't sopping in sweat.
He works silently with a frown upon his face, his hands still trembling terribly and his throat feeling like sandpaper. The fresh air cools him but makes him feel light headed and dizzy as he straightens up the duvet on his bed, he stumbles back and trips on the cord attached to a hairdryer, he takes another step back to steady himself but stands on a plug, it's metal prong's jab at the sole of his foot making him jump quickly thinking something had impaled him.
He hops on one foot while checking the bottom of his right for any signs of blood, nothing. Just pain, he pushes the hairdryer to the side under his desk and retreats to his bed.
'Nothing can get me.' He thinks to himself 'Not if I stay awake.' He stares at the ceiling while screwing up handfuls of his duvet in each hand, clearly terrified of falling asleep again. He knows he can not stay awake forever but just for tonight he was scared to close his eyes. His nightmare had terrified him to the extremes, he could still hear the screams in his mind, could still see the knife, the stabbing, the cutting, the blood, the gore, the puddle, the bodies, the fearsome creature that had committed the crime approaching him with its knife steady, poised and ready to plunge into his pulsing heart. Ready to kill him.