Dream Eater

I had a dream in which great towers rose from the ground, and I saw them, and I did not laugh. I refused to laugh. The more I held in my laughter, the more frequently the towers would erupt. It was as if the earth were the back of one great rat impaled upon countless blunt knives. The ugly monoliths rose towards a sickeningly blue sky, and I cursed it nearly as much as I cursed those craggy columns. 

I did not remember this dream until weeks later. I was walking, eavesdropping upon jovial passersby. As they mused loudly upon nothing at all, a sudden twinge of bloodlust rose inside me, and I recalled the towers. However, I murmured a prayer, and I thought of the curtains and the clothes in the altar in which He was seen. I listened to His words reverberate through my mind, and I felt comforted. 

In spite of this episode I was able to perform my ministry as normal. Of course, even on the best of days, I could never impart anything of value unto my acolytes. They had seen something in contemplation of Him, and they had read the aphoristic canon, but their minds were closed to the secrets behind the text. But it was of no concern to me, nor to my Master beyond. Their tithes were enough. 

That night, I had another dream. I found myself in Temple Skygge, prostrating myself before the Staring King, daring not to look upon his myriad black protrusions – let alone his lower eyes of wrinkled flesh. He said to me, “Have no fear! The soul of a sinner is like oil; in the inferno of my eyes he is set ablaze. But you, who are the bravest of all those who fight in His name, you will look and find solace. Rise, my lost lamb.” 

But no matter how I strained and pushed against the floor, I could not stand up. The floor’s consistency had become like quicksand. I raised my head to look upon the Staring King, but he had vanished. Instead I saw the grey towers, piercing up from the floor of the Temple. Ever since I was an adolescent, I had prepared my body and soul to visit this one celestial room, and now it crumbled before my eyes – eyes, which at this point were almost submerged beneath the sand. 

I felt myself squashed in peristaltic motions, prior to being unceremoniously ejected. I felt the stomach-lurching sensation of falling. Deeming it safe to open my sand encrusted eyes, I saw nothing above me but clouds, and nothing below me but the muddy desert of multiplying towers. At once I made two observations, each conferring to me a unique flavour of supreme dread. First: the towers possessed many bifurcating and rapidly growing ‘branches’, not unlike magic beanstalks composed of concrete and grime. Second: the towers were coughing, sending little black speckles airborne. These droplets were surprisingly heavy, and splashed quickly into the mud. It was then that I saw miniature, toy-like skyscrapers budding from the ground where the droplets fell, and plummeting, just moments prior to blunt, muddy impalement, I awoke in my bed. 

The next day I cancelled all my appointments. I painstakingly painted the Sacrificial Cherubim upon the floor of my basement, and threw my own Fluids of Decay upon their smiles. And yet, the Staring King would not answer my call. Instead, I heard only faint, irritating music, emanating from the sigils around the cherubim. I hastily erased the sigils and the circle, and poured thinner upon the painting. But no matter how clean I scrubbed the floor, the cloying, greeting card-esque music continued. 

I prayed to my Master for help. I prayed that His vassal, the Staring King, was safe from harm. But the more I prayed, the louder the music became. In terror, I downed as many soporific substances as I could find in my house, and fell into another fitful sleep.

This time, I found myself in Temple Chirm. This place was known to me through my studies, though my chief allegiance had always been to Stygge and its King. In unwarranted optimism, hope sprung in my breast that the Wingèd Mass might inform me as to the whereabouts of the Staring King. I navigated those azure corridors which undulated like waves in the ocean, but I found no trace of its ruler. As I doubled back and made my way out of the temple, I noticed the walls becoming more uniform in colour and geometry. At the entrance was a sign stating “Gift Shop This Way”. I looked out and once again saw mud; mud and a forest of grey, supremely bland architecture. I looked back at the temple, and saw a smiling mannequin pointing towards a shelf of greetings cards. I woke up. 

The curse upon my ears had been dispelled. While I took some relief from this, I was beginning to panic. I prostrated myself in prayer once again, practically begging and whimpering aloud to my Master. But there was no response. No presence, no sensation or sign. I was astonished and dazed. My eyes were wide and my mind felt as if it had been emptied. Mechanically, I dressed and left my abode. On that afternoon, the sky was shockingly blue; it was like I was staring at an old, malfunctioning computer. I saw the same ugly, stinking street as usual. Almost on instinct, I marched my way to a chain supermarket. For reasons unknown to me, I stepped inside, and in my trance-like state I loitered beside a speaker; this device was ejecting tinny canned music, the kind so inoffensive as to be viciously offensive. I sat for minutes, my behind chilled by milk products. A staff member asked if I was feeling alright. In response, I asked her “What has eaten God?”. The loud music had muffled my mumblings, and so she pointed to the Gouda cheese next to me. I bought the cheese, left, and never returned.