Chapter 5 Siren

SIREN. THAT'S THE NAME he started calling me when he learned my singing could control not only the nightmares he created but people too. Actually, it's the only name I remember. I don't know if it's because I was probably too young when he snatched me up or if the use of his control is affecting my memory. I no longer remember a time I wasn't under his control, if they're even was a time.

I don't even have a choice in how I look when the nightmare master has control. It's like he's dressing a puppet, his puppet. I'm forced to wear clothes that scream torment, stitched together with his own hands, meant to make me look like I walked out of some sick, twisted nightmare. The jacket he put me in is made of black leather, but it's not smooth or soft. It's cracked as if it's been torn from the flesh of something long dead.

It clings to me too tightly in places, as if it wants to suffocate me. The silver chains across my chest only add to the weight. Some of them rattle when I move, making me feel like a prisoner in my own skin; there's no comfort, just cold metal and sharp edges. The collar spikes up around my neck digs into my skin, almost like it's trying to choke me, a constant reminder now I belong to something, my starter, or should I say someone? My shirt is worse, torn in several places as if unseen hands have shredded it.

The sleeves end in tattered scraps, as if someone ripped them off during a fight, and old bloodstains soaked the black fabric. The patches are mismatched, a grotesque collection of fabrics that have been sewn together in a hurry. The straps crisscrossing my torso are tight, so tight that I can feel the way they dig into my skin, each one a reminder that I'm not free. The pants are basically a joke, just dark as night and torn at the knees with the hems covered in dirt and dust from everywhere I've been. A chain hangs from one of the belt loops, rattling whenever I move like a ghost that follows me everywhere.

The boots were heavy and covered in dried blood, among other things that I really didn't want to think about. The cracked leather looked as if it had seen the end of the world, but that’s exactly how I was supposed to be; I’m meant to be a reflection of suffering. I should appear as if I have been broken a thousand times, yet I rise. That's what they want: a soldier and a nightmare army. My face is the actual hell, though, ghostly pale, covered in black makeup that was smeared to make it look like I've been crying tears of shadow.

A blood-red stain colored my lips and never fades, no matter how many times I try when he returns control to me. I can feel my lips crack every time I speak, dry and stained, and my eyes burned was sick Golden Glow I can't seem to turn off. There, the nightmare Master is making a mark of his control, and I don't have the strength to fight it, not that I could, even if I had the strength. He pushes our true selves to the back of our minds and controls us like puppets, his puppets to play with and dress up. The hair is wild, pulled into twisted tangles that never stay in place, hanging in my face like the threads of a dark web, some of it sticking to my forehead with the sweat that never seems to dry.

He makes it this way, makes it look like it's alive, like it's part of the chaos, and I hate it. I hate everything about it. Then there's the guitar, though you can't actually call it a guitar anymore. It's a goddamn weapon, one that I've used to massacre so many people. Barbed wire wrapped around the body of the guitar, spikes judding out at every angle like they wanted to tear me apart if I stopped playing.

The strings aren't even strings; they're tendrils of dark energy that hum as if they're alive, playing his disastrous music. Sharp blades run along the edges, waiting for the Nightmare Master to use my body for another one of his massacres. I don't even get to choose my music; the Nightmare Master always picks it for me, and it's always loud, always brutal, every note a scream. A scream so loud it makes the room shake, and when I play, I don't play for me; I play to feed the Nightmares to feel whatever sick thing the Nightmare Master wants next. I can't stand it, but it doesn't really matter what I want.

I'm just his puppet, forced to play what he wants, and I don't have a choice. I watched from deep inside my mind as I stepped out onto the stage for my performance, already dreading what was going to happen, what always happened. The Nightmare Master forces me to do these concerts at least once a day. He finds it amusing to make me kill as many people as he can. There was no one in the audience at the moment, but as soon as someone hears my voice, they will come.

My hands started strumming whatever melody he wanted me to play before the lyrics started spilling from my mouth.

I'm sorry to say, but today is your death day

The air is thick with rot and decay

Your blood will paint the cold, cracked floor

Dripping like echoes from the hands before

Whispers crawl from the cracks in the wall

Laughter distorts a sickening call

The lights flicker, the shadows Bend

This isn't a dream; this is the end

Run, run, but your feet won't move

The darkness wraps its chains around you

A sick grin forms in the blackest shade

Time runs out and so will your veins

A lullaby hums in a voice not your own

Sung from the mouths of the buried and dead

A faceless thing grins in the wide doorway

Stretching its arms, your escort inside

Your name is etched on a tomb with no grave

A jagged whisperer, an icy brace

Your heart beats loud, but not for long

Run, run, but your feet won't move

The darkness wraps its chains around you

I said grin forms in the blackest shade

Time runs out, and so will your veins

The bells don't toll; the clocks don't chime

Only the sound of the end of time

Your Shadow melts your hands turn cold

The nightmare sings as it takes hold

I'm sorry to say, but this is the end

Your breath is stolen; no need to pretend

A door creaks open; the void pulls tight

Welcome to Nightmare Land, say goodnight