The mask covered his face entirely, strapped onto his head. Instead of a nose, a long beak protruded from the mask, with a barbed end. He wore a mask, made of browning leather, with two large metal rings and thick, green lenses where the eyes would be. They were linked to canisters on his back, long sections of translucent tubing connecting them to his fingers.īut his face, or lack there of, was the most terrifying. His right glove had syringes strapped to the tops of his fingers, with long, cruel spikes where different hues of green and brown liquid dripped. His hands were covered in large black rubber gloves. It was closed mostly, but underneath he wore a brown waistcoat, made of leather, and long black trousers, with pointed black shoes, much like that of a suit. He wore a long, stained coat, similar if not identical to those worn by a doctor. The creature was tall, gangly, and seemed to have an aura of filth surrounding him. It was what was in the dream with me that frightened me the most. It wasn’t the walls or the ceilings that caused me to wake in fits of shivering and screams. It would make sense that this would be the case dreams are based very loosely off of what has happened to you, and then are distorted as your brain sifts through the information.īut, it wasn’t the hospital that frightened me. The second floor of the hospital, and some elements of the main entrance and stairwells, bore an uncanny resemblance to a hospital I went to when I was younger for a check-up. As if I had been there before, and that it wasn’t just some place in my head. What made the dream even more unnerving was that the hospital seemed familiar. All of the halls and rooms were poorly lit, as if the backup power was being used to keep the place lit. The furniture was torn and scattered across the floor, if present at all. Some snaked down, broken and sparking, only to add to the decrepit nature of the place. The ceiling tiles were damaged, exposing the pipes and cables above. The place seemed abandoned, the walls stained with dark brown over the peeling, sun-bleached walls that have turned to a sickly ivory colour. Unlike your usual sterile building, where smiling nurses would escort patients suffering from all kinds of ailments to the correct rooms to be treated, it was disgusting. From the age of eight I suffered horrific dreams, all of which were based in a specific hospital.
But it gave me a small comfort that there was a reason, a rational explanation for having such an irrational fear.īut, in reality, it was because of the nightmares. Of course, this didn’t help my fear at all it probably served to perpetuate it further. Perhaps it was because my young mind linked pain and illness to them it would make sense to a child, since you go to the doctors when you aren’t feeling well, maybe they were the ones that caused it. Maybe it’s because I’m squeamish, I would tell myself. And yet, I could not even be in the same room as one without shivering, without the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Ignoring slight hiccups in medical practice, everything they did was beneficial. You may wonder why these individuals were here only to heal us, mend us. Ever since I was a child, I always had a crippling fear of doctors.
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