The Immortal Sleep
By Punjabchild
His long fingers curled themselves around the thin white sheets. Sweet glided off his forehead, with such force, and in heavy amount, that it created miniature waterfalls running down his face, neck and his chest. Yet he couldn't open his eyes. Couldn't wake up. Couldn't stop the nightmares.
Thus, were the dreams of the immortal. The immortal damned.
Under his closed eyelids, images flashed before him, blinding. He saw himself young again. He looked down and saw his hands, clean with no wrinkles or scars, resting on a keyboard. His ears swelled with the sound of sweet music, and the chatter of a lively tavern. He was playing the music. It was one of his piano pieces. He could now feel his figures dancing over the keys and his body swaying back and forth. He could almost sense the eyes of the crowd watching him. His nostrils soon flared with the scent of tobacco, ale, meat burning in the kitchen, heavy perfume, and of course the smell of sweet whine and cheap beer. The dream formed itself into actually reality, as immortal's dreams do. Unlike other beings, mortal, who will remember in their dreams what they saw and what they heard, an immortal's sleep cause the dreams to register all of the sense.
Now he dared to look up at the large glass mirror above his head. Praying to see his deformed features so common to him now. Hoping to see the face would shatter the illusion, so he could wake up. But as he expected, it wasn't so.
The face starring back at him was indeed he, perhaps when he was in his mid-20's. Young, handsome features, bright green eyes, a youthful smile, and a mane of sandy red hair. There was no reason to conceal this face behind a mask of human flesh.
Such terrible torment, these dreams of the damned.
But he saw something else in the mirror, a dark shadow descending down the stairs. The figure of a man with glowing yellow eyes. It came closer to him.
He balled his fists in rage; pressing his fingers so hard into his palms he felt them bruise. Streams of blood started to run from his temples. The sight of him was causing him to change. The shadow wavered and grew into a massive cloud of smoke. Only the yellow eyes remained. He could feel it closing around him. He turned to face it.
"Lucifer, why? Why do you do this to me! Night after night. I have given you my soul, isn't that enough?" he shouted.
The shadow ignored him. He wished he could lash out at it. "Damn you! You bastard, leave me be!" He felt hot tears of anger flow down his cheek and mingled with the blood. How ironic, his curses of damnation directed towards the king of all the damned. His king in fact even though he didn't want to accept or admit it. The shadow burst forth into peals of laughter, echoing sinister all around him. The scene in the bar had faded away leaving nothing but blackness.
Suddenly he felt as if his face was on fire, and he gave out a scream of agony. He brought his hands to his face, and he could feel were there was moments ago young skin replaced with melting and raw flesh. He stared at his hands, the silver and onyx ring glowed red hot, embedding itself into his finger. H e tried to pull it off, but ceasing knowing he would detach the digit if he did so. The laughing grew as the torture increased.
Knowing it would be in vain, but sick of the vain anguish and pain. He lunged at the shadow.
He sat bolt upright in bed, his sheets soaked through and his face dripping with perspiration. He panted heavily. Then something stirred in the bed beside him. A slender female hand placed itself on his shoulder.
"Erik, what's the matter?" an angel's voice asked him.
He turned to see Christine lying in the bed next to him. Her dark hair contrasting with her pale flesh enhanced by the glow of the candles. She wore a cream color silk nightgown that exposed ample amounts of her soft skin. She was too real to be true.
He scooped her in his arms and pulled her over his legs. She looked at him concerned. She pressed her palm against his wet cheek and wiped it, then leaned over and planted a kiss on it. So sweat and delightful, he thought. Not many men had been kissed by an angel. He placed his fingers at the spot caressing it.
"Come back to bed Erik." Christine sighed. She let one of her hands run down his thigh. Leaning forward, she closed her eyes and opened her mouth slightly in warm invitation. A seductive moan escaped her lips. Erik went to throw his arms around her and press his burning lips upon hers.
But the moment they touched Christine vanished into the thin air, leaving nothing but the cold air to great him.
He sighed and left the bed. " Damn it all" he muttered. "Nothing but foolish dreams." He went to his pipe organ, only his playing would keep his sanity intact tonight. For it would be a long time before he dared to sleep the sleep of the immortal and dream the dreams of the damned.
End
His long fingers curled themselves around the thin white sheets. Sweet glided off his forehead, with such force, and in heavy amount, that it created miniature waterfalls running down his face, neck and his chest. Yet he couldn't open his eyes. Couldn't wake up. Couldn't stop the nightmares.
Thus, were the dreams of the immortal. The immortal damned.
Under his closed eyelids, images flashed before him, blinding. He saw himself young again. He looked down and saw his hands, clean with no wrinkles or scars, resting on a keyboard. His ears swelled with the sound of sweet music, and the chatter of a lively tavern. He was playing the music. It was one of his piano pieces. He could now feel his figures dancing over the keys and his body swaying back and forth. He could almost sense the eyes of the crowd watching him. His nostrils soon flared with the scent of tobacco, ale, meat burning in the kitchen, heavy perfume, and of course the smell of sweet whine and cheap beer. The dream formed itself into actually reality, as immortal's dreams do. Unlike other beings, mortal, who will remember in their dreams what they saw and what they heard, an immortal's sleep cause the dreams to register all of the sense.
Now he dared to look up at the large glass mirror above his head. Praying to see his deformed features so common to him now. Hoping to see the face would shatter the illusion, so he could wake up. But as he expected, it wasn't so.
The face starring back at him was indeed he, perhaps when he was in his mid-20's. Young, handsome features, bright green eyes, a youthful smile, and a mane of sandy red hair. There was no reason to conceal this face behind a mask of human flesh.
Such terrible torment, these dreams of the damned.
But he saw something else in the mirror, a dark shadow descending down the stairs. The figure of a man with glowing yellow eyes. It came closer to him.
He balled his fists in rage; pressing his fingers so hard into his palms he felt them bruise. Streams of blood started to run from his temples. The sight of him was causing him to change. The shadow wavered and grew into a massive cloud of smoke. Only the yellow eyes remained. He could feel it closing around him. He turned to face it.
"Lucifer, why? Why do you do this to me! Night after night. I have given you my soul, isn't that enough?" he shouted.
The shadow ignored him. He wished he could lash out at it. "Damn you! You bastard, leave me be!" He felt hot tears of anger flow down his cheek and mingled with the blood. How ironic, his curses of damnation directed towards the king of all the damned. His king in fact even though he didn't want to accept or admit it. The shadow burst forth into peals of laughter, echoing sinister all around him. The scene in the bar had faded away leaving nothing but blackness.
Suddenly he felt as if his face was on fire, and he gave out a scream of agony. He brought his hands to his face, and he could feel were there was moments ago young skin replaced with melting and raw flesh. He stared at his hands, the silver and onyx ring glowed red hot, embedding itself into his finger. H e tried to pull it off, but ceasing knowing he would detach the digit if he did so. The laughing grew as the torture increased.
Knowing it would be in vain, but sick of the vain anguish and pain. He lunged at the shadow.
He sat bolt upright in bed, his sheets soaked through and his face dripping with perspiration. He panted heavily. Then something stirred in the bed beside him. A slender female hand placed itself on his shoulder.
"Erik, what's the matter?" an angel's voice asked him.
He turned to see Christine lying in the bed next to him. Her dark hair contrasting with her pale flesh enhanced by the glow of the candles. She wore a cream color silk nightgown that exposed ample amounts of her soft skin. She was too real to be true.
He scooped her in his arms and pulled her over his legs. She looked at him concerned. She pressed her palm against his wet cheek and wiped it, then leaned over and planted a kiss on it. So sweat and delightful, he thought. Not many men had been kissed by an angel. He placed his fingers at the spot caressing it.
"Come back to bed Erik." Christine sighed. She let one of her hands run down his thigh. Leaning forward, she closed her eyes and opened her mouth slightly in warm invitation. A seductive moan escaped her lips. Erik went to throw his arms around her and press his burning lips upon hers.
But the moment they touched Christine vanished into the thin air, leaving nothing but the cold air to great him.
He sighed and left the bed. " Damn it all" he muttered. "Nothing but foolish dreams." He went to his pipe organ, only his playing would keep his sanity intact tonight. For it would be a long time before he dared to sleep the sleep of the immortal and dream the dreams of the damned.
End