The Tome Of Dread: Sweet Dreams

Tome Of Dread: Sweet Dreams

They had no names. If they were provided names, they must have been disregarded after the years of misery given. Names have no longer been of consequence to the two. They solely recognized the contrary as "Sister" and nothing less. I am not familiar to their birth names, and I am the one explaining this fable.

They once had a mother who departed from them a limited number of years ago, but no evidence was left behind, and to this day and hour, her whereabouts remain anonymous.

This fable takes place in the years where technology was relatively recent to the human mentality and wouldn't have received composure until another fifty years. The year and duration was June 13th, 1975, and the period of day was 8:30 PM. Meaning families would gather around the Television and watch that week's episode of M*A*S*H* and eat their dinners, laughing at the outrageous escapades of the characters portrayed on the small box screen with the crude clothes hanger antenna taped to its top.

But this fable does not comprise a family, and it inevitably does not comprise laughing of any manner. It comprises the two anonymous sisters sitting in their bedroom with their bruised arms over their empty stomachs as their father drunkenly curses them for whatever inaccurate aspects they have committed.

Their room was as empty as most of the entire house with a single twin mattress, a dresser, a window, and a ceiling fan missing two of its four blades serving as a punishment for something I know not of, but very maliciously overreacted. They had a dirty tile floor and horrid wallpaper peeling off over time and weather. What did they have for toys? Whatever they found in their backyards. Sticks and stones. Cleverly, the oldest sister made a slingshot for the other for whenever they plan on leaving home to find everything they dreamed of. And when I tell you the six-year-old had a strong arm for slingshots, you wouldn't believe me unless you see it for yourself, but perhaps it's better to view some other time in the future.

As I have previously stated, the sisters sat in their room while their father griped toward them, they wept and held onto each other as if their life depended on such a task.

The oldest sister laid herself on the twin mattress with her knees up to her chest, calming her breathing and scowling at the wall she faced. Her hands gripped into fists and the veins in her throat clinched its mighty muscles as her final tears slid onto the pillow. "I want him to die!" She whispered to her sister who turned around. "I want him to die right now! I wish he would die so we can run away together!" She sat straight. "I want to kill him!"

The youngest sister shook her head. "We can't kill him, we'll be exerted."

"'Executed,' and you're right. Killing someone is dangerous." The sister looked to the window, hopelessly filled with somber.

"We'll never escape, will we?" The youngest sister asked.

"We'll escape... I hope."

ཀ༼ༀ༽ཫ་ཀ༼ༀ༽ཫ་ཀ༼ༀ༽ཫ་ཀ༼ༀ༽ཫ་ཀ༼ༀ༽ཫ་ཀ༼ༀ༽ཫ་ཀ༼ༀ༽ཫ་ཀ༼ༀ༽ཫ་

Everyone heard their screams. They heard their cries. They heard the sound of the rod striking skin, but they refused to take any action. They feared the life of their father. What a terrible man he was. Standing at 6'5 with large arms and a large scar across his left eye he was given from the great second world war.

Over the years of that traumatic age, he built a hatred of many, including his wife and daughters. He no longer cared for the pain he causes. Pain is his only therapy.

He would abuse his children in cruel and humiliating ways a man shouldn't exercise to any. His beating heart was the organ that kept him feeling alive. He was a vile man even Scrooge would fear. And at this moment, any man would as well.