Memory Man
A Dream
There’s a Mothman in my room, over by the window. I think I must be dreaming. He’s just standing there, a large dark figure in a dark room. He seems to feel me watching him and he turns around to face me. I am frozen in my bed, watching him unfold his giant wings, spreading them wide to reveal his splendour.
In an instant, he’s at my bed. I’m not even aware of him moving at all. He moves his hands in front of my face, unnaturally long fingers like talons, ending in unimaginably long fingernails.
His index finger is pointing at me. I can’t see anything else, not the size of him, his darkness, or that he has no face. I can’t help but look at that finger, the nail that is about to touch me. It pierces my forehead. It feels cold. Memories leave my head as I watch his face change again and again into familiar faces from my past. He is stealing my memories. Tears are rolling down my face as I am forced to part with them.
“It hurts”, I tell him.
“Not for long”, his gritty voice replies.
I feel powerless.
Like his face, his posture changes. As I feel my head emptying, he turns into an actual person, neither male nor female, with a face that is not unpleasant, framed by black locks.
