This is what I imagine to be the inner dialogue (mostly) of someone who has completely lost their sanity, their ability to reason.

Quick info: Matthew has lost it, and in his mind he's playing a bunch of memories, meshed together like puzzle pieces that don't fit together, like a movie.

By the way, this is one of my first attempts at trying to write insanity and "horror". I'd love some advice or constructive criticism.

And the thing in the summary was just something I wrote. Actually, it inspired this after I wrote it. I have no idea why I wrote it... but that's irrelevant. Second part, Nightmare come alive, will be up soon. It's a lot shorter.

Flesh

Oh God oh God oh God.

The screams. He could hear them in his ears, piercing his skull. The blood, he could taste in on his tongue, he could smell it and the burning flesh and oh God why was this happening?

Another scream tore from his raw, torn throat, blood and spittle spraying out over the body laid out before him. He didn't recognize it - couldn't without the face, without the head oh God where was the head, where did he throw it, why did he take it off why was this happening. He was curled in on himself, trying to block out the fire and the pain, but it wasn't working because people were still screaming and bleeding and trying to run and hide but they couldn't and God it hurt. He was rocking back and forth, like a child in the cradle, but his mother wasn't there, hadn't been for years, centuries, so long. The hands clenched in his hair, slowing ripping it out, making his scalp bleed, they were covered in blood, his own, someone else's, he didn't know where it came from, only that it was there.

No matter what he did, his hands were dripping blood. He washed them, but the blood kept coming, welling up from his knuckle, but not his fingers because three of them were missing, he couldn't find them, where could they have run off to? Where was that woman's head, anyway? Did they run off together? Stupid young couples, always eloping, it never worked, they always found out too much about the other and hated each other and oh God pain.

Another scream tore itself from his lungs, his flesh, as though something were trying to escape. Was there something in his chest? It felt like it. Why did it hurt? What had he done? Why did it hurt, he wanted it to stop, he wanted it to go away go away go away go away. Bloody, bitten hands crawled their way down his face, his neck, to his chest like demented, twitching spiders, counting his ribs as they pressed hard enough to bruise until they reached the last one. Clawed fingers tore at his sweater, his shirt, reaching for the skin, for the muscle, for the bone, for the thing in his chest because it was hurting him and he didn't want it to hurt anymore.

He didn't like pain, it hurt, he didn't like hurt, it burned and fire wasn't good because it hurt and hurt burned, and it was painful and pain wasn't good because it hurt, and it burned and he didn't like it because it was painful, and it hurt and burned and he didn't like it because it hurt and pain wasn't nice because it burned and he didn't like being burned because it hurt and what was that, I heard it, it followed me.

In the kitchen? No, the kitchen wasn't there anymore, it was all turned to rubble and smashed so it wasn't in the kitchen. Where, where, where, he heard it, it followed him, where was it, he didn't like it. He didn't like pain either, but there was no more pain, because the thing in his chest that was hurting him was gone, he had thrown it away somewhere, and it was other there and oh look, so was the woman's head. So where did his fingers go? No, wait, the pain didn't belong in the corner, it looked so tasty. He wanted it again. He didn't want it to hurt, but he wanted the pain, the lovely, delicious painful thing that only hurt him when it was in his chest, making so much noise screaming and clawing and crying that it hurt him, because it was hurt too and didn't want to be in pain alone.

He crawled, he didn't walk because his leg had tried to dance, but the rest of him didn't and it twisted and now it was numb, so he crawled to where he had thrown the painful thing and settled against the wall, ignoring it even though it had followed him, ignoring it because he had the painful thing in his hands and it was so lovely and looked so good. Like a steak. He liked steak. It was good, so he liked it because it was so good and went well with almost anything, so it was good, and he liked it because it was good so it was good and he liked it.

And this beautiful painful thing was good too, not good in his chest, but good on his tongue, down his throat, some on his face because it was messy like tomato sauce or candied apples, but it was so damn good so good so good, he wanted more, but there was no more, it was all gone now. Where did it go? Did it run away with his fingers? Did they kidnap it? Maybe, some of the painful stuff was on his hands, so maybe they drugged it and ran off with it.

But where would they go? To Europe, across the ocean? No, they weren't welcome there. No one was. Well, maybe the Europeans were. Why not North Americans, too? They were all people. All the same, all the same inside with the same colours and textures and tastes and everything, and outside too, they all had skin and eyes and hair, unless they were cancer patients, then they didn't, where did the hair go on the cancer patients, anyway? Did it run away too? Did his fingers use it to tie up the delicious painful thing? How dare they! His fingers were supposed to obey him, but they didn't, they wouldn't move when he wanted them to so he bit them, and they tasted good so he bit them a few more times, and then there was something crunchy between his teeth and it was so good, so good, but then his fingers were gone, and where did they go? Did they run off? Because he bit them? He wouldn't again, he promised. He wailed into their empty room, promises, promising not to bite them again, please come back, he needed them.

But they weren't coming back, because they ran away, they didn't like him. But it could hear him, it could hear his cries, so he bit down on his wrist to try and be quiet, quiet was good, it was nice and quiet, so it was nice and good because it was quiet, and quiet was good, and so was his wrist, so he bit it again, and he bit it again and he bit it again and it was good, but where was his hand? On the floor by his foot. He picked it up with his other hand, and it looked a bit like the tasty painful thing he had just lost, so he licked it and it was good too so he bit it and then it was gone. Where did it go? He wanted the tasty part again, but his hand was missing.

What was he supposed to use to eat now? His other hand? Maybe it tasted good too. He licked it, but it didn't taste good like his other hand did. He didn't like it, so he didn't bite it. His wrist was good to bite, though. He bit it and bit it and bit it until it was all gone, and the little crunchy parts were all gone and he kept biting, because his wrist was attached to his arm and it was good, and tasty, and he liked it, so he kept biting until he couldn't reach any higher, and he licked his other arm to see if it tasted good but it didn't, why didn't they taste the same, they were the same, made of the same, so shouldn't they taste the same? He licked his tasty army, and it was tasty, and he licked his other arm, and it wasn't, so he stopped licking it and kept licking the tasty one.

And he heard it downstairs, it was talking, there were more of it, what did they want? They couldn't have his arm, it was his arm and where was it, but it tasted so good, why couldn't he have more? He licked his other arm, but it wasn't tasty so he didn't lick it again. His knee could reach his face, maybe it was tasty, but his leg was all twisted because it tried to dance alone without his body and you weren't supposed to dance alone, it didn't work. It takes two to tango. Who said that? A lot of people. No, no, who said it first? I don't know. Why don't you know? Because you don't know. Who are you? Who am I? Yes, who are you? I don't know, who are you? I asked you first! No you didn't, you asked you first. Okay, fine, but who are you? Who am I?

"Oh God."

It was here, when did it get here, while he was talking to him? What was it? It looked like him. It had eyes and skin and hair, and it probably had bones and muscles and fat, too, but what was it?

"Mattie?"

What did it want, why was it there, what was it saying, he couldn't understand, why couldn't it speak like him?

"Mattie!"

He twitched, suddenly still, not rocking back and forth. It hurt, too loud too loud too loud, silent, I want silent, why can't it be silent? But it was louder and louder and wouldn't silence and it was growing, it was getting bigger and squishing him against the floor, and he tasted something in his mouth and it tasted good so he bit, he bit again, he bit again, and his tongue was gone, where did it go, oh, why do all the tasty thing go missing right when he finds them, and-

This is where it goes to the second part, Nightmare Come Alive. You'll see why it cuts off so abruptly.

-Panther