Cold

Last night's dreams were terrible.

I dreamt I was in the facility, hovering over my sleeping body. I sank through the floor of my room into a stone corridor. Though it was dark, I was able to see things close to me. The walls of the corridor were covered in primitive drawings of men killing and torturing one another, of giant creatures with teeth and claws. I floated through the floor of the corridor into a cave, small and ragged. A pool of absolute black dominated the cave, and as I fell toward it, I was terrified. I sank into the black, and I couldn't move or breathe, and I felt myself dying. I didn't die. I passed into an area that I knew was vast, though I could only catch glimpses of it. The space I hovered in was silent, but for the sound of rasping breaths from far away. I floated over to the sound. As I got closer, my mind rebelled, and I strained against the path I was following. I knew that I didn't want to see whatever it was I could hear. My fear grew as I struggled, and I felt that I was being propelled by a giant, obscene hand. I started to see an outline ahead, and I realised that if I saw what was in front of me, my mind would be destroyed.

I woke at dawn. I'd had the same dream over and over, ending always at the same point. I'm tired. I've thrown the prehistoric tool into the sea. The weather has changed: it's colder now, and an icy wind batters the sea into waves. My good spirits are gone. I'm going to try and sleep now, though it's still morning. I don't want to dream.