After a long day, I laid down to go to sleep. I closed my eyes in comfort. And gurgled.
My eyes shot open as my lungs started to fill with liquid. Unable to move by will, I could only shudder under the blankets as a heavy resistance sat on my chest. The edges of my sight were framed by a creeping black film that branched over my eyes the way ink feathers across paper.
I’m drowning.
I cough and some of the invasive liquid splatters on my lips where I can taste and smell it.
Ink.
I have a whisper of recognition, a glimmer of understanding that I’m not awake, that I’m in a hypnagogic state again. I’m not drowning, and that’s not really ink slowly covering my jerking eyes.
But the fear is too great and the knowledge is muffled by shrieks that never surface.
My vision dims fast under the combination of my starting to pass out from lack of air, and the thickening film of ink over my eyes. The last thing I see before darkness claims me completely is [OG] reaching out of the shadows above my head. His right hand grips my face, and I am lost.
Later, OG raised his fist away from him. Slowly, he opened his hand. A small bird, feathers stained by the quickly drying black ink soaking it to the skin, immediately flew out of his loosening grip as soon as it had room to move and as fast as the little wings could take it.
OG chuckled with indulgent satisfaction.