The man awoke to pitch dark, he strained his eyes to see anything about his surroundings, but found it impossible to see anything. He remained quite quiet, hoping to hear something. Suddenly, the stillness of wherever he lay was shattered by screaming; horrific, blood curding screaming. The man was quite sure it was someone in pain, or in fear. He tried to stand, and found himself too weak to do so. He desperately wanted to know where he was, to know who was screaming.
He felt his surroundings with his hands. The floor was damp, and felt of cool mud, the walls jagged wet stone. There was nothing else, except strong, think chains. Chains, he realized, that were bolted to the wall. He followed them with his hand, being taken completely off guard when he found that the other ends were bound to his ankles.
What was this horrid place, and why was he here? He started to panic, pulling frantically at the chains, trying to rip them off his ankles. He started to scream along with the other voice, knowing for certain now that the other person was also screaming from fear. The man screamed for what seemed like hours, until he noticed a small block of white light near what he figured was the ceiling.
He stopped screaming, and looked up, and saw a window. Almost as big as his head, it was the most welcoming site he could remember seeing. He tried to stand again, this time using the jagged wall as support. He managed but felt his knees start to shake, and his legs began to give. He pulled himself up more with his arms, but it was only seconds before he realized that they also wouldn't hold on. He let his body collapse to the damp floor, but was comforted by the presence of the window.
He knew so well the light of the full moon, which was what shone through the small window now. He didn't know why or how come it felt so important to him, but somewhere in his past, he felt somehow attached to the moon.
He was also comforted by the fact that the moon was there, which meant he wasn't so far from any place that he knew that he could be in any real danger. But then, how often had he thought this recently?
Why though? Why did he feel like he's been in danger recently? Why couldn't he remember? Think, man, think! He pressured to himself, but no answers came. So, he settled down to watch the small patch of white drift farther down the far wall as the moon rose higher and higher.
Eventually, the shaft of light fell on a door. The man shuddered almost instantly, for it was not a friendly door. It looked like a jail door. Cold, black, iron bars ran vertically from the ceiling to the floor and mixed with the random horizontal bar. No, it didn't look like a jail door it was a jail door.
Suddenly, the man remembered. He knew where he was. With that memory, instant fear washed over him, and he passed out, and fell hard against the jagged stonewall, cutting a large gash in his head in the process.
The man awoke later. He didn't know how much time had passed, but knew that he was bleeding. The blood had run down his face, and was matted through his long, black hair and through his beard. He wiped it from his eyes, and felt the cut. It was really deep, and would need healing. Healing he could manage, it was a simple spell. He felt about for his wand in the dark, and not finding it, he instantly remembered (for the second time that evening) where he was. He wouldn't have his wand here; he'd probably never see it again. He only choice was to call out for help. He shuddered at the thought, as he knew what would come to his aid.
The air was rather still again, whoever had been screaming before no longer was. Had they fallen asleep, no longer able to fight the fear, or had they died? The man didn't wish to know the answer to that, so he stopped thinking about it to call out for help. None came. Disgruntled, the man ripped off a piece of his shirt, and tied it around his head.
That was when the nightmare became completely real. The shirt which he had ripped the bond from was not his own. He could tell by the feel, he never wore thin clothes like that in October. Someone, or something, had changed his clothes. He strained his eyes in the dim morning light, and saw the faint outline of black and white bars running across the shirt. His eyes traveled farther and saw the same pattern on his pants.
No. It's all a dream, just a dream. I'll close my eyes, and when I wake up, I'll be lying in my own bed, in my own clothes, and this will all just be a memory. With that, the man drifted to sleep, believing that it was all just a dream.
But what he took to be a dream was a nightmare, one that he would never forget.