I'm sure you'd imagine yourself very cranky if you woke with your body warped and bloody, the lower jaw extending out far and wide, your eyes beady and blurry. At the end of it every thing was warped and brownish and bloody and odd, it felt odd, was odd. Seymour could see, or, really, feel, for sight was near impossible, that he was dead, or dreaming a very vivid, lively dream. So he went back to sleep atop the smelly, bloody operation table, ignoring needles and hacksaws, computer monitors and consoles.
But, this attempt at sleep and a return to his quaint little home off the coast of Spain would be short lived, for sound said doors were flying open, and another person was searching things, smashing glass, operating buttons and tools. Seymour was annoyed, but knew better than to bother with a dream, even when that dream incessantly oriented on him, searching all around his small room, pressing buttons and whispering to himself. After a while time passed and he saw no alternative, sitting there in the gloom, figuring it was very likely the type of dream you needed to be shocked by before you could accomplish wakefulness again.
So he hoisted himself on tree-thick legs, the floor cold, stained. It was not hygienic, but this was a dream, so he could care less. Like many a morbid, terrible dream speech was quite impossible, coming up the throat as shallow exhalations, again and again. But that would be too easy, he realized, and so he went on, towards this visitor.
Unfortunately his exhalations were louder than he thought, and so the young man in his black shirt and pants and funny army vest, for that was about as much as he could make out, wielded some kind of gun with a round barrel. Than he fired, and it stung, blasting flesh again and again: his chest until there was naught but a hole, than his head. And, despite this, when he could see or hear nothing, and all he could do was feel pain and cold and vulnerable, which admittedly were quite the unnerving feelings, Seymour reminded himself that dreams could be quite cruel! and allowed himself to continue to stand. In true dream fashion he felt the gaping hole replenish itself, and than the stump on his neck form another head, like an apple on a branch, within seconds.
Sight and sound popped right into existence along with it, and Seymour stayed quiet, for certain that this was a dream. The stranger did not give up, walking around and dodging nothing, for the thick arms or razor teeth never went near him save for when he approached. When his weapon's barrel was exhausted he fled, and Seymour shrugged, returning to his dream world bed.