Its been twenty-two years sense that day, yet my dreams still consist of nothing but the nightmarish pictures of the blood stained tables with the organs of the people I grew up with lined up in alphabetical order, the knifes and instruments of terror hanging from chains from the ceiling. I don't remember where I was, how I got there, how I got out or where I went when I finally escaped. The last thing I remember is screaming and crying at my decapitated and disemboweled friends and girlfriend, waiting for the thing that brought them to an end, to come back for me. Hours and hours I waited in that room, maybe even days. I assume I eventually passed out from exhaust and lack of nutrition. When I awoke I was in a hospital bed, my arms and legs strapped down. The doctors and nurses who came in every so often to check up on me, didn't say much to me, and acted as if my antagonizing demands for answers were normal and never even reached there ears. As days went by, I refrained from asking question and trying to make sense of what was going on. I grew to live with what I thought had happened, never knowing what actually went on. Instead, I now simply wait in my room with the cushioned walls for the thing to leave my mind, and return to take my remains with it..
If you have any ideas for a title, I would like to hear ideas
