Donkey awoke in their apartment, the familiar smell of Shrek's onion cooking wafting through the rooms. He was sweating and shaking uncontrollably. He had just awoken from the worst dream of his life. Terrible images of tentacled limbs wriggled and squirmed beneath the darkened surface of his mind's eye as he lay trembling on the couch. The television spewed forth an unintelligible stream of word soup as donkey staggered into the kitchen.
"What's wrong, Donkey?" Shrek asked worriedly. "You don't look so good."
"I had… a dream."
"Well, forget about that and warm yourself up with some hearty onion soup," said Shrek, and Donkey complied as Shrek placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of him.
Donkey inhaled the oniony scent of soup. It smelled the same as always, except…
"Is it not to your liking, Donkey?"
"No, it is perfectly acceptable, Shrek." As Donkey began eating, the memories of his dream began to fade and lose their malice amidst the warm, oniony aroma of Shrek's cooking. What was it he had smelt earlier? It probably wasn't important.
Donkey turned his attention to the television as he ate the soup; the newscaster was discussing another drowning in the local river as footage of the darkened surface of the river rolled by, but for some reason Donkey couldn't focus on the words he was saying – they burbled and bubbled, swirling like brackish water around his comprehension.
"Let's not darken our evening with mention of such things," said Shrek, flicking off the television, "I'm going to prepare the bed."
"Okay, I'll wait here for the moment."
After Shrek exited the room, Donkey stood and investigated the kitchen. His eyes came to rest on the half-full pot of soup. Lifting the lid, he peered inside the pot; the soup appeared completely normal, and Donkey began to lower the lid when he saw something peculiar: for a second it was as if the ringlets of sliced onion writhed within the deep pool of broth, churning the surface to foam. A shiver ran down Donkey's spine, and for reasons he couldn't explain, he felt suddenly cold. He touched the soup pot. It was ice cold. Impossible – it was piping hot mere moments ago.
A crackling sound interrupted his thoughts – the television glowed faintly in the dimly lit living room, static dancing in macabre arcs across the screen as menacing, half-obscured visions swirled beneath. Had Shrek turned it back on? Donkey didn't see him anywhere. He turned back to the soup and lifted the lid once again, setting it upon the counter and watching the soup intensely. He leaned over the pot, peering into the depth of the pot. His breath steamed in the cold air – when had it gotten so cold in the kitchen? Suddenly, the contents of the pot once again spasmed and twitched, shocking Donkey and sending him staggering back. As he reeled he knocked the pot over, and the contents spilled forth. The 'soup' continued to pour forth into the kitchen, more than seemed possible. Cold and clammy objects wriggled and squirmed around Donkey's ankles, and the 'soup' continued to rise, filling the room up to Donkey's chest as he scrambled to open the door. It was stuck. The soup continued to rise until Donkey had to swim to keep his head above the surface. This seemed so familiar – his dream, what was his dream? The soup completely filled the room, and Donkey frantically rammed his head into the sealing, looking for air that was no longer there. His dream, his dream…
Donkey exploded from the dark waters of the river, staggering onto the shore and up the bank as fast as his trembling legs would carry him. The shadowy waters churned behind him, and great waves raged against the ragged shoreline. Donkey ran and ran, away from the town, away from the river, deep into the trees of the forest. Branches lashed at his snout and shrubbery flayed his legs as he fled in panic through the darkened knolls of the woods. At last he emerged from the trees, ragged of breath, onto the shore of the great sea.
The stars were bright overhead – too bright; scorching white starlight blazed upon the beach, bleaching to a stark white the mellow sand and olive green beach grass and the glossy orange seashells and – everything, stained an unearthly white, except for the dark waters of the sea which met the awry stars along a shifting and warping horizon. The terribly illuminated sea coiled and contorted with trillions of unseen limbs, and innumerable shining eyes looked upward from the abyss, meeting the gaze of the scornful stars in silent complicity.
"Donkey." The voice resounded from the sky and depths, and as the stars shifted to reflect the unnatural visage of Shrek, the voice spoke again: "We gave you a nice dream."
The hellish light of the stars scorched Donkey's mind, and as he felt his sanity slip away, he heard Shrek's final message.
"You chose to wake up."