The leaves of sleep are falling, and the bitter cold of the waking world is slowly creeping over me. I try and push it away, my mind not wanting to face the bleak reality, jus wanting to remain safe and comfortable in my grove of dreams. My attempts were futile, everything was becoming tangible again, the shabby mattress under me who's springs jabbed into my back, the pillow that had long since become flat and uncomfortable. My fingers were wrapped around the sheet they gave me, clenching it as if I had woken from a nightmare, the feel of my own nails digging into my palm blocked only by a paper thin sheet was pulling me back even quicker then normal. It was untrue though, I had not woken up from a nightmare, I just entered one.
I could hear them outside, there were two this evening. One speaking in monotone to the other who seemed to just be passing by. With a relieved sigh I tried to sink into the mattres, wanting so badly for my body to just disosolve into the bed below mes, then perhaps someone else would sleep on me, their body pressed up against my coils as they toss and turn in their sleep, the gray even wreaking havoc in their mind. It would have been a welcome experience for me, to feel the touch of another and it was not pinning me down.. It was pointless though, I knew that I shouldn't waste such valuable imagination on a petty thought like that.

The dull gray is already seeping through my lids, flooding my mind with it's murky existence and forcing me to stare at it full on. I'm greeted with a wall laced with colors, but they are so obscured by the gray it makes no difference. They were my own creations, made with the quick strokes of desperation and longing, but they brought little fulfillment once they were done. They were only a bleak reminder of the world that will never be. The crayons were in a corner, a child's toy perhaps, but it brought me away from the bland horror that had become my life. They helped me escape, if only for a little while, into a place full of color and life, of love and trust and of peace. It was true, a child's toy brings out a child's dreams.

I still find myself laying here, my eyes have not moved from where I have left them, gazing at the poorly drawn tree on the wall opposite my mattress. Slowly I force myself to move, The pain from my neck sending me crumpling to the ground once more. I had brought it upon myself though, if I had just been good...If I had just been a good boy and sat still I wouldn't be like this, be in such pain, but I wasn't.

They had woken me up, forced my out of my dream world, and sat me straigh. Already I was flailing and scratching, my arms swinging blindly until it made contact, then beat it again and again, preparing not to stop untill the joyous feeling of blood ran down my fingers, a victory laced in red. By the end of our little 'tryst' I found myself being pinned to the bed, my stomach pressed up against a waiting coil and my arms spread out beside me. Someone was sitting on my back, ensuring that if I escaped they would be around for at least part of the ride. Then the pain came. The needle found it's mark, and did not hesitate to enter. It buried into me until it found what it sought so terribley that it was willing to take a child from it's home and lock it away.

My eyes welled up with tears as I felt the color drain out of me, everything morphing into some sick shade of gray, and I screamed. I screamed until I felt the needle jerk out of me and the retreating footsteps of They, I don't call them anything else, they don't deserve a proper name.

They left me there, in that room, curled up and sobbing like some pathetic child, it would be the only emotion I would feel untill I forced myself into some sort of sleep. I think they thought me as such, some sort of a child they could toy with. After all they even gave me the crayons. I remember my sobs slowly growing weaker, my eyes being shielded from the grey, and the welcome sight of dreams racing through my abused mind.

The dreams themselves were dodgy, fading in and out as my mind tried to recover from what just happened to it. It tried to reproduce soothing images, some of my family, some of animals and just about anything else it could conjure up. It didn't always work like that though, every so often a flash would dart by, one of me being stolen from my own bed, another of the first time They did this to me, and at times visions of now, of the room as it is, and how the only thing that's here to see me off into my death are the weak strands of color I brought upon myself.

That's what I called it now, dying. Every time they did this I was getting murdered. There was no other way to classify what was happening to me, I would become a drone, a corpse after they took away my mind, I would do what they asked and usually fall right into sleep. They needed me to sleep, it's how they got what they wanted, if I slept poorly then business was bad, if I slept well then perhaps I would get a new toy, a different colored crayon, or once I was given a book.

That book was dear to me. I had memorized every page of it within a week, and I still loved it, even to this day. They knew that, and when I misbehaved hey would rip out pages from my book. I had been misbehaving quite a lot lately. They killed my book a week ago.

There is someone at my door again, I hear gentle rapping and voices talking. The door then opens, revealing to me the ones who haunt my nightmares. They make no noise as They walk, and it appears their feet don't even touch the ground. I am reminded of Christ walking on the water, but if They were supposed to be Christ, where was my salvation, where was my forgiveness?

A soft voice wraps itself around me, as I see him, a man with a wicked grin and cruelty in his eyes. "Shall we begin?"