Cracked

I know I am asleep. I know I am; I can feel myself lying in bed. I can feel the blankets and cool sweat covering my burning skin. I am on fire. I know this, too. Burning, blistering, in my dreams my skin is cracking. I’m like a porcelain doll left to be trapped between decay and beauty.

The hardest part is when I’m forced to watch the ones I love burn, too. They catch fire and plead for me to stop. I hold the bucket of cool relief, unable to move. I cannot cry as I watch them die. The tears will not fall. The horror prickles under my skin, turning my blood to solid, cracking ice. There is nothing I can do. Nothing.

In my bed, in another world, another life, I can feel someone’s hands wrap around my throat and squeeze. I lay motionless, trapped, a porcelain doll. I cannot let go and forget. I must kill the people I love and not mourn for them. I must burn and crack.

I know I am asleep, but I cannot ever wake up.