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24hourdinerandotherhorrorstories · 4 years

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The Letter Forever Remembered

Dear (name is smudged out),

My story is an odd one. Most would even consider me the bad guy along with my family in my story. However, at the end of the day I'm so happy with my family and with the love of my many lives. Yes, you read that right, I have lived many lives with the same memories and the same needs as the one before. Always hopping into some sad little child corpse and taking it over. Never quite mentally growing, always flipping between childlike and forcing myself to be an adult without understanding what it really meant to be an adult. It never got easier and it's not something you can just get used to especially when your mind is mostly feral from isolation. My mind was broken after so many jumps between bodies and people rarely take in children that are damaged. Sometimes my adopted parents were human and feared me to a certain extent but many times after they were not and didn't fear me enough. However, they found me, the dark followers, they saw what I was and gave me a proper caregiver. I called her Mother, for she was the only one I ever considered true family.

Most humans around her couldn't understand why she would adopt and foster damaged children when she could have her own. But she always looked at us with happiness and pride. She told them we were children of her soul and called to her like no other, how could she deny that call? People would go quiet after that, mostly at how intense she was about us. She was patient with her broken children and we saw her as a divine being finally delivering us the peace we so desperately craved. We as her children could never quite figure out if she was human or something more, much like the dark followers that visited our home while we grew up. Growing up in such a dark home had it's terrifying moments. Even for one such as I, who had seen so much, was scare of some of the things I saw. I do not know how to begin this part of my story but I will try.

The one moment, the one special thing that always pushed me to live through all these horrible lives was her. I met her in my third...or was it fifth life and she was my everything. She was my soulmate, my twin flame, my sanity and the sweet love of my lives. Every life I met her, I would able to breath again. It was both a blessing so grand it brought me to tears but a curse so foul that physical torture would be better than the pain of seeing her die. She always dies before me in some horrific fashion. I would see the life leave her eyes as she told me she would find me again. She always did, no matter how much I hid, she would instantly grab me in a hug and happily say "where have you been hiding" before kissing me like she couldn't get enough of me. She never blamed me for her deaths, I sometimes wished she did. We both know our relationship was cursed to fall before her 30th year. Someone or something would tempt a friend or sibling into a jealous rage and they would kill her. It was just how it was, no matter how much we protected ourselves, she always died as blood would cover the ground while I wailed into an unseeing void. So it was a painful surprise when mom came in one day, with my love gripping her hand tightly. She looked so small then in her child body but her eyes shown with dark humor at her situation before she tackled me to the floor. Only words leaving her as we hugged were "going through puberty again and remembering, is going to suck".

Things were great at first. We did everything together and slowly relearned our love for each other from friendship to a romantic relationship. We got into a lot of mischief which led us into many punishments and awkward situations. Mother grin at every moment of it and was happy for us. I couldn't have loved my mother more in those moments. But something started hovering over us when we turn 21. Mother started getting more protective of us and my siblings. Mother's eldest children were always seen coming and going rapidly through the week. Some of her eldest children seemed to grow more and more vicious as they stole money from the house. The dark followers would yank them away from us when we would work outside in the garden, speaking in harsh voices as they went into the house. Mother's face was constantly forced into a frown as her eyes showed deep sadness and disappointment. It was odd to my slightly fractured mind how mother could raise such horrid people. But my soulmate always told me "you can't blame everything on the parent for how their child turns out, sometimes things are just outside of the parents control."

When we turned 30, my soulmate was brutally tortured and murder by some of Mother's eldest children. The pain of feeling her life slip away all over again was excruciating because she thought this was going to finally be our happy ending. She strokes my cheek as she choked on her blood, her body was carved up in symbols. The carvings were so deep that I could spot her bones underneath, not that she had much weight on her in that moment. Something in me broke completely at seeing her that way. I'm not proud of what I did but damn did i enjoy it. The dark followers and Mother brought them to me, passed out and threw them at my feet. I looked up in surprise mostly because these were her children. Mother gave me a dark look full of hatred as she said they weren't her children but they are your blessings. I didn't understand completely what she meant but I also didn't care.... I enjoyed smashing their heads under my foot, I enjoyed ripping each and every bone from their screaming bodies before looking into their eyes as they breath their last breath. I painted the walls in there blood as Mother watched with a sad smile. I destroyed them through the night as I couldn't be bother to shift back to my human form. At this point I was just a feral beast mourning their soulmate. I passed out as the sun greeted the day, in a pile of bodies and broken furniture.

I didn't talk for years after that day. I hid away with Mother, only working around the house but remaining unseen. I couldn't look my siblings in the eyes after everything even if they understood. They gave me the space I needed but always left me gifts or snack with little notes attached about how they were doing and how much they loved me. I cried so much those years, I couldn't even pull my self out of my isolation to greet my nieces and nephews. Everyday it took longer and longer to change into my human form and even harder to hold together. This time it felt like I lost far more than I ever imagined.

When I was 40, Mother said it was time to finally get my blessings. I still didn't know what she meant so I just shook my head and curls up in my bed and wrapped my wings around me. Mother wouldn't take no for an answer and lifted me out of my bed. I panicked because Mother was never forceful with me even after everything. I couldn't stop the panic attack that invade my mind and didn't hear my mother trying her hardest to calm me while I screamed then everything went black. I awoke in a soft bed with silk sheets, clothes set out to be worn and robes hanging behind the door. Mother was sitting in the chair near the bed I was in, her eyes were closed but she was not resting. I whimpered because I thought I was finally being punished for everything that happened but Mother just pulled me to my feet, told me to get cleaned up and dressed. I obediently did as I was told and even made sure to groom my damaged wings. Wings that I had to grow back after in a moment of weakness and too many bottles of the strongest alcohol I could find.

She put a blindfold over my eyes and held my furred hand as she led me around. I had no clue where I was or who was there, the scents were so new that it felt like the place popped up overnight. When we came to a stop, I tensed at the one familiar scent. I started crying, sobbing at what mother was doing to me. I couldn't understand why she was punishing me this way before gently hands removed my blindfold. I gave a shaky gasp at the sight before me. It was a my beautiful ethereal soulmate, the love of my many lives, right there in the flesh, with tears of happiness in her eyes. Her eyes are what threw me off, they were a misty green color which was a contrast to her deep brown almost black eyes of before. I flinched at the voice that spoke to everyone in the room. My soulmate held me close as the being spoke. The being was named by the dark followers as The Guardian. I thought it was a myth of some crazed but loving cult. I was terrifyingly wrong, this creature was all consume like the void given form. They spoke about my pain and how my family step in to bring me peace. They told me the woman at my side was my soulmate brought back from death through a union of souls. The union was so deep that no matter the situation neither will pass on until they chose to and that they will never feel the pain of heartbreak ever again. I though I would pass out at the amount of information being thrown at me by the being holding my future. I shakily asked what the catch was and they grinned back along with the woman and teen at their side. The smiles should have been horrifying but all I could do was calm down and give a small smile back.

After the events of that day and getting my love back, things have been great. I still have a lot of setbacks but The Guardian and Mother found me a great therapist who also happened to be the same breed of creature I am! I'm still growing as a person in many ways even if I feel older than the trees in my front yard. The pain still comes back from time to time but my family takes care of me well and I'm really and genuinely happy for once in a long time. I guess this is my first and last letter to you but I just wanted to thank you for stepping in when you did and bringing me to Mother so many decades ago. I know you paid a price to force me into this life as a way to give me happiness. I hope to one day see you again my very first father and I love you even if I do not know you.

Sincerely your beloved daughter,

Akasha Dawnshard

#the 24 hour dinner

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zaccahrycrookes · 3 years

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Anxiety: my lifelong companion

"Whenever my telephone buzzes, I see hooded riders setting fire to hundreds" - Aesop Rock

Anxiety is a funny beast, I've always lived with it. As a little kid I can remember being crippled by insane fears, or the feeling of fear. Not attached to a physical situation, just always there to pop up as it pleased. It was always physical, intense symptoms but they only lasted a few hours at a time

As a child I hated sleeping over at friends houses, being away from home I felt insecure and scared. My parents thought it was just separation anxiety, you know a kid learning to feel safe away from home and family. Eventually that shifted, at about ten or eleven years old I was able to stay with friends, or visit relatives alone without breaking down as the sun went down, begging to go home. After that it all went away for some time, and nothing was thought of it. A bad year at school when I was about thirteen manifested in a break down due to anxiety. I didn't know what happened, and my parents didn't either. I would lay awake all night feeling sick, shaking, crying, with dizzying headaches, but suddenly by morning I would be fine. This again lasted a year, passed and allowed me to live again as a 'normal' teenager. By the time I started High School it seemed all those fears, and physical symptoms had passed

My parents had divorced by then and that brought a sense of calm to me. They both seemed happier for it, for a few years I got two enjoy two loving, and happy homes with my younger brother.

Anxiety is a disease, it can happen to anyone. My 'image' of an anxiety sufferer is a pale skinned, kid shut away in their bedroom playing video games and eating fast food. This is an insane concept, because I am one of those people- I am a sufferer of severe anxiety. I've always been active through my life the outdoors in many ways is what has kept me sane. My weekends filled by bikes, skating, rock climbing, hiking and fishing with friends. Somewhere through the years I figured out physical exhaustion was the best remedy for me. Naturally I begun working as a landscaper/ gardener/ labourer etc... as a way to exhaust me, and my mind.

The anxiety somewhere along the line manifested as an intense fear of vomiting, not even getting sick- just vomiting. Not dying, not getting some terrible illness- just vomiting. Over many years I worked with it and managed to gain some control over this fear. I always hated parties for this reason, as a child it was my friends eating to much sugar and vomiting. Then as a teenager it was friends getting drunk, or greening out; and vomiting. This fear again consumed me when I was seventeen; it'd been a good run, a good almost four years of living a pretty normal teenage life. I was partying, drinking, doing drugs, all that fun stuff. I learnt to control my intake, I never get out of control and never over indulged. The first time I got drunk was off a bottle of Vodka by a fire. I was fine, but everyone else was throwing up all over the paddock. After that I decided I would never binge drink, and that curbed the fear at parties, I'd have up to three beers, and know I would be fine. Never mix drinking with other substances. Simple rules that kept me in tact through those teenage years.

At seventeen it all rushed back, all of it. I was feeling sick daily, scared of not sleeping in my own room. Even with people I considered my 'other families' with whom I had spend weeks in their homes. I stopped going to parties, I became a social recluse after the sun went down. I had stopped seeing my father, as our relationship had collapsed; that plus the stress of school work broke me down again. Still every weekend I rode, skated, hiked, climbed, and worked outdoors to save money. Gaining experience in these skills and nurturing my love of the outdoors. I didn't let my anxiety take that away from me. By eighteen I was ok again, this was thanks to my girlfriend at the time. She helped through one of the darkest parts of my life, and single handedly bought me out of

my fear filled world, again able to be social and enjoy the company of others. I met this amazing woman on my eighteenth birthday, at my birthday party. Even then I was running away to hide in my room ever few hours for ten minutes to gather myself. We'll call her Andrea, with her supporting me I begun to live again and we finished school

In those years the shadow of anxiety still snuck back in. I was away with friends for the weekend, staying with one of their older brothers and his family. We arrived late Friday night after a three hour drive. My friends brother was sick, and vomiting. I freaked the fuck out, the next morning I spent chain smoking standing outside in the fresh air where I felt safe. Eventually asking my best friend to drive me back to the closest town, to get a bus back home. I never told them the truth, just made some lame excuse. That shook me, but it didn't stick, I went to Andrea's and by the next day it was gone and I was ok. Small attacks like this happened but I never got stuck in it, managing to shrug it off. I stayed away from big parties, didn't go to many gigs, and essentially avoided all crowded spaces. These always bothered me, I have always lived in quiet areas. The peace of being isolated has been a big part of my life

After school I begun working as a full time as a landscaper, then a handy man, then gardener, then labourer for a house relocation company. I ended working with the relocation company, as the boss fucked me over with payments and let me go for no reason. Even with that, the death of a family member, and a close friend admitted to the hospital psychiatric ward; I held it together. All this time I was feeling great, anxiety seemed like a bad dream left in the past. I worked all year, then travelled Peru with my family, and Europe with Andrea, and our close friend Fay. Andrea and I broke up soon after arriving home, I was worried I would relapse, but I didn't to my surprise. I went through a short stage of depression, but made the move to New Zealand and was feeling better then ever

After six months I returned refreshed back home, anxiety always there but not controlling me anymore. I had power over it, I was in control. The following years I worked in a plant nursery, worked for a Uni as a field (research) assistant in the science department, and studied fine art. Andrea's departure from my life left me spinning, but I came through it free of a breakdown. It wasn't until the stress of my work for the Uni had me slowly degrading back to a bundle of anxiety, the job finished. I moved back in with my family to be closer to the town I grew up in, that's when it hit

Whilst working I had been living with friends, toward the end the anxiety was creeping back but I chose to ignore it, pretending it wasn't there. Things like to much coffee, or a harsh word from a co worker would tip me over the edge into panic. Luckily my work, family, and home environment was filled with loving, calm people who made me feel supported. Toward the end of the job I begun making mistakes, small but noticeable. feeling in over my head, never having studied science I stepped down, and eventually quit. Deciding to move back with my Mum and family, and work once again as a gardener to keep my life simple and stress free

I moved in, and the panic started 24/7. I had been living independent on my own steam, schedule and rules for so long that moving back in with my family shook me. There was always things happening, people everywhere, things to be done, and so much energy constantly around me. It was a drastic change from the relaxed, simple living share house I'd grown used to. Within days I broke down, I awoke one night feeling sick. I thought I was going to throw up, I ran out of my room, toward the bathroom. Suddenly my mind stopped me, and I found myself running outside. The fresh air hit me, instantly I felt a little better. I spent the night pacing the yard in a shaky panic, finally slipping into sleep at about four the next morning. A panic "hang over" the day after feels like you've spent five days on speed and jus starting to come down, your wired yet exhausted at the same time. You crave rest, and quiet; but it never comes. Your body shakes, you can't stay still, but neither can you stand very long. You feel sick, confused, and completely shattered with a body of sore muscles from tension

This continued for months, until I was completely beaten down. I couldn't sleep, eat, work, or function in my "normal" life. I found people's energy so over whelming I was reduced to hiding away in a dark room. I tried every treatment I could find, eventually exhausted after a trip to the ER due to a week of no sleep or eating I was given some Valium, and able to peacefully sleep for the first time in months. That episode had me ending up in a sterile doctors office getting handed a prescription, out of option I had admitted defeat

"Oh, no Valium is addictive. Don't take them at all! Take this SSRI once a day, come back in a month" He said. Under duress he gave me small Benzo prescriptions for 'emergency' situations

That was all the support our 'advanced' medical system had to give, throw some pills at me after five minutes of talking and hope for the best

I begun seeing a psychologist (to look good on my file), and a counsellor (who was more aligned with my belief system). It was late May by then, I'd been unable to work since February and was quickly running out of what I'd saved. Unable to move out, work, or do anything. Most days I was confined to my bed by the fear of having a panic attack or feeling to sick to move. A close friend in New Zealand was experiencing the same journey, I would Skype often, and found great support in each others journeys. I Skyped with a dear friend in Melbourne who also had personal understanding of mental illness, combined their support was unmeasurable

Despite feeling like I was losing all control over body, mind, and soul I made myself pack and board a plane to New Zealand for a month. Then a plane to the US for another month. Then home, while away I kept getting better, and better. By the end of the US trip I was feeling completely myself again, I was hiking, and climbing again, I could eat, and I didn't have a single panic attack. I felt like the person I used to be. The second I arrived home, I was back at square one. Within months I was back on a plane to New Zealand, after selling what ever I could to make money and pay for a flight. There I felt good, I was working again out in gardens, and designing landscaping projects. After a few months it snuck back, and once again I was back at the beginning. Constantly shaking and feeling sick, completely unable to quieten my racing heart, and mind. By now I realised SSRI's are also addictive and coming off them would be another whole battle in itself

This disease is not easy to see from the outside, but I can assure it is as real as a broken arm, heart attack, or cancer. It is debilitating, exhausting, and untreated or cared for can kill

I am now at a loss. Taking pills I don't want, that don't seem to help, and will be a challenge to get off. A medical system that doesn’t really know what they are doing. I become more, and more convinced medical school is no more an expensive sales degree for selling for what ever pill is the flavour of the month/year/decade

I wake up feeling anxious, I eat and have a cup of tea. I go about my day, and check chores off as best I can; depending on how sick or scared I feel. I come home, and begin to panic as the sun sets. By night there is a lump in my throat and a tight knot of tension in my belly. Then I try to sleep, wake and do it all again. The best analogy I've heard is that anxiety is like an ocean it rises, it subsides, there can swells, breaks, or still days. But no matter what, it is there and it is always moving

There is no conclusion to this story, it's still being written, and may be a never ending series for all I know. The best I can hope for is brief escapes and moments where I feel myself again

-Written circa 2018.

#anxiety #deppresion #mental illness #panic attack #writing #short story

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sending-the-message · 6 years

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The Night Guard by Dudefromevanston

The same monotonous routine each day, every day, dragging you closer towards insanity — a summation of life in solitary confinement. It’s like being buried alive in a concrete tomb, or as some inmates would say, being locked in a gas station bathroom twenty-three hours a day. I lived that life for five excruciatingly long years, hell on goddamn earth.

A violent crime sent me to prison, and an even more egregious act landed me in solitary. An inmate had stolen a bag of coffee from me, worth all of three dollars. Prison is a different world with a more barbaric code of conduct, I had no choice but to assert myself.

I confronted the thief a week later and stabbed him repeatedly with a homemade knife fashioned from a dinner tray. It was a miracle he survived, even I was thankful for that.

As punishment for my act of retribution, three years were tacked onto my sentence and I was placed in indefinite segregation, meaning the administration would only release me once they felt I was no longer a threat to institutional security — their words not mine. The prison system was fucked up, but so was I.

I’ll never forget the first time I walked into the solitary unit, it’s a memory I can’t seem to escape from. Inmates banging against steel doors, hollering at the top of their lungs until their voices grew hoarse; the smell of feces overpowered only by the scent of despair; and even the guards looked sickly and frail, as if the environment had poisoned them.

Shackled in leg irons and handcuffs and escorted by two guards, I was led into cell 13A. It was a barren room with nothing but a concrete bed and stainless steel toilet. The window was a thin slit of frosted glass, obscuring the outside world from view. As the door slammed behind me I was left with my thoughts, nothing more, nothing less.

For months I thought I couldn’t be broken, until I was. Isolation reeks havoc on your mental state, even the strongest men will crumble. My lowest moment came laying face down in a cell, feces covering the walls, chemical spray burning my eyes, and several officers forcefully restraining me.

Around that time, during a sleepless winter night, I saw him for the first time. A majority of the inmates were heavily medicated, sleeping through the night without issue. Now and again, as a small act of defiance, I’d feign taking my prescriptions. This would leave me wide awake, unable to ward off intrusive thoughts and hard questions — painful but necessary.

At night, the prison assigned a single guard to conduct rounds in solitary every fifteen minutes. Guards would often stretch this to an hour, hoping inmates would take the chance to hang themselves. The night shift was only given to veteran employees who’d earned a break from the madness — younger staff weren’t gifted that privilege. On this particular night the guard was not someone I recognized, a highly unusual event that immediately piqued my curiosity.

The guard was gangly and tall, well over 6ft. His clothes were much too small, stretching high above his elbows and knees. Prison was about order and uniformity, even for the guards, this man was anything but.

Firmly pressed against the wall, he stalked through the unit cloaked in shadow. Meandering about, he eventually headed towards an inmate named Skitz’s cell, fingers like branches caressing against the steel bars.

I strained my neck to see more, the confines of my cell severely restricting my view. Contorting into an uncomfortable position, I saw the guard bent over, firmly grasping Skitz’s outreached hands. Mournful chanting echoed softly as they swayed back and forth with hypnotic precision.

Hours later the guard stepped back and crept past my periphery. Panic stricken, I crawled towards the corner of my cell, fearing he’d pass. Some primal instinct was begging me to hide, I was in no position to disagree.

For the rest of the night I hid motionless, praying for the first time in years. Only when the first rays of sunshine splashed through the fogged windows, and the breakfast trolleys squeaked through the unit, did I move.

That morning I ate in silence and watched as the paramedics rushed into Skitz’s cell. Blood pooled outwards as he was taken away on a gurney, limbs dangling loosely to the side. It took the inmate workers (porters) an entire day to clean the mess left behind, their labored grunts a sign of the difficult work.

Several days later, I overheard the porters discussing the incident amongst themselves in hushed tones. Apparently Skitz had gone crazy, drawing strange symbols and scenes of death with his own blood, some remarkably detailed. From their telling, every square inch of the cell was covered, even places you’d think were unreachable. Most horrifying, they had discovered his scrotum floating wistfully in the toilet — Skitz’s had castrated himself.

In my cell, I felt like a calf destined for the slaughter. Every day I’d pace back and forth, replaying the events of that night. Every night I’d lie awake shaking with fear, peering intently through the darkness.

Sleep became increasingly rare, coming for only a few hours in the afternoon. Large bags formed under my eyes and I became even more sedentary, rarely moving from my bed.

On the eve of a large thunder storm, the night guard returned. Sauntering into the cell block, he strode purposefully towards the upper tier. I watched in full view as he ascended the stairs, gliding forward with surprising speed.

Each crackle of lightning bathed him in light, if only for a moment. His skin was ashen white, limbs were unnaturally elongated, and his face remained in shadow even when the lightning struck.

On the upper tier he walked back and forth methodically, stopping periodically to peer into a cell. His movements were silent, not even the slightest patter of feet could be heard. After what felt like a lifetime, he grasped onto the bars of the last cell on the tier — Filthy Frank.

Frank was a semi-succesful rapper who, after a night of smoking PCP, had stabbed his girlfriend 74 times believing she was the devil. He even cut out her heart and consumed it; years later he would tell a documentary crew it tasted like roasted beets.

The next morning I watched as the officers cut Filthy down from a noose, his body collapsing onto the concrete. Large swathes of skin had been ripped away, muscle and bone clearly visible underneath; the cell was covered in markings, although I was unable to make out the details; and most disturbing of all, the noose coiled around his neck was fashioned from his own intestines.

Months went by without a sighting, all the while I waited in fear. I refused to leave my cell, afraid of what I might see. On the rare occasion I was given access to a mirror, I hardly recognized the face staring back at me. A scraggly beard hanging from gaunt cheeks, lips chapped and bleeding, acne-ridden — these were my now my defining features, far from the man I once was.

Six months after Filthy’s death, a brutal wave of violence swept through the prison. More inmates were stabbed in a one month period than the previous two years combined — it was a bloodbath.

Despite all the security measures, solitary was not immune to this trend. Seven inmates were viciously attacked in my unit, and unforuntately, one of them passed away. With all other options exhausted and the prison unable to quell the violence, the warden ordered a lockdown.

During a lockdown movement is heavily restricted, with a majority of inmates confined to a cell 24 hours a day. All privileges are stripped away, most painfully, visits from friends and family. For those of us in solitary it didn’t change much, but for the rest of the prison, life had become drastically worse.

A week after after the lockdown was instituted, a handful of eerily similar murder-suicides occurred. Several inmates in Cell House B had torn open their cellmates’ chest cavities with their bare hands. Teeth marks were found on the lungs and hearts, which had been stuffed back into the victims’ anuses. The perpetrators died just as gruesome a death, gouging out their eyes before slowly sawing their throats with a dull blade.

After the murders, the news media went into a frenzy — reporters descended onto the prison from all over the world. A public outcry soon followed, deriding the barbaric treatment of inmates and stark living conditions. With pressure from multiple fronts, prison officials were forced to institute major policy changes. In the wake of these changes, I was released from solitary and allowed to serve out the remainder of my sentence in general population.

Two thousand, one hundred and forty-four days after leaving solitary, my prison sentence ended — a day I thought I’d never live to see. A bright, cheerful sun greeted me as I took my first steps as a free man. It was a moment of cathartic release, slightly diluted by my own melancholy.

There’s a saying in prison, if you look back you’ll come back — inmates swear by it. To gaze forward is to accept a new future, to leave the past in the past. Unfortunately, the past still had a hold on me — I looked back.

Peering down from a guard tower was the night guard, a sight I almost expected. Bathed in sunlight, it was the first time I saw him completely unobscured. His face was a patchwork of decaying skin, all different shades and tones crudely stitched together. Perched on his forehead, a semicircle of eyes blinking at various speeds. Rows of teeth peeked behind thin, black lips pursed into a smile. I recognized tattoos from some of the murdered men adorning his body — gruesome trophies.

With a final wave, his body melted into the shadows and disappeared from sight. Stifling tears, I shuffled towards an awaiting van, ready to take me back home.

I may have left prison, but it has certainly not left me; some scars cut too deep to ever heal. Manic episodes, panic and anxiety attacks, insomnia, depression — these are just a few of the things I carry with me to this day. Worst of all, my dreams are now host to an unwelcome visitor who has made himself quite comfortable, feasting on my fears.

You know it’s true what they say, prison does change you.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

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