It's so surreal. The feeling in the very air that surrounded me. A hand subconsciously reached up, roughly pinching the flesh at my cheeks, before rubbing the now pained, angry flesh.
Okay, it's real. So why doesn't it feel like it? Why does it feel foreign, fake and baltantly unreal when it isn't? I can feel it, the gauze, the dressing, pressing, pressure every time I breath, pressing against the angry burns marring the flesh of my torso. I can hear the raspiness of my throat, the pain of probably blackened lungs.
Despite feeling it, I can't help but think - hope that this is all one horrible dream, that there were no plumes of black rising from flickering beds of angry red and orange and yellow, greedily devouring everything; furniture, clothing, hair. Flesh.
I could still smell the burning flesh. The smell made my stomach heave. But how, why does it make me feel sick if it isn't real? That's right, it isn't real. Soon my mom will burst into my room, turning on the light, waking me.
Her face will be the same, flesh unmarred by burns, skin not burned completely away, revealing the char of bone. She'll pat my head, comforting after the heat of (artificial) flames.
After that, I'll go to school, forget thus terribly boring dream; doing nothing but sit on the bed, wrapped in bandages, head pounding, skin already beginning its slow and delicate healing. One good remaining eye trails to the clock on the opposite wall. How long until I wake up? I wonder. I shift on the bed, and bite back a scream of pain as the skin moves against the gauze.
I can't scream. If I scream, I might wake my mom up, and she'll be angry and won't wake me up, won't card her gentle fingers through my hair and comfort me. I don't scream. I bite my tongue, willing the pain away.
Minutes pass and I continue to stare at the clock. An hour passes before I grow bored. Ignoring the stabbing pain that would otherwise make me double over, I stand on uncertain legs, reaching around and untying the bandages on my chest.
They slither to the floor, pooling at my feet. Nausea claws at my throat; the flesh hidden beneath the white was grotesque, burned and charred, melted against the bone. Delicate scabs had already formed over the shallow areas, but all the rest was red and angry and burned and gross.
The smell of burning flesh reaches, claws at my nose and I rush to the bathroom, vomit carving at my throat. Ignoring the burning of my abused esophagus, I stand before the mirror, removing the bandage around my head.
It, too pools on the ground, revealing more angry burns. But something else, too; my right eyelid is sown shut, preventing me from opening it. I reach up, poke at it, but quickly remove my hand when I find nothing behind the skin.
This dream is becoming too real, too frightening. Where are you mom? Hurry up and wake me up ... I don't like this dream anymore ...
A/N: This is just something I quickly threw together out of boredom. It was prompted by the word 'illusion' which inspired this ... abomination I shall call it, since I do not like it very much.