The Nightmare That Jack Built

I wish I had an eye patch. Then my head wouldn't hurt so.

I dreamed of a lavish home, or perhaps it was a homestay. I'd bought it and furnished it, and decorated it with care. The biggest room I chose for myself, and anyone was free to come live in the others.

But my mother said I couldn't, I shouldn't take that room. Someone was already coming to stay in it, it was not mine to have. I thought of lingering defiantly, for surely it was mine by right. And then, heavy of heart, I slunk away.

And the strangest thing began to happen, as I roamed from room to room in search of a place to close my eyes, even if for a little bit. Someone was always coming, someone to whom this room, and the next, and then the whole house belonged.

And I couldn't take it any longer, the oppressive shadows of imminent arrival hanging over my head. I left the rooms, I left the house, I left it all behind. I tried to run, an endless, breathless escape. And it feels as though I've never left that house behind.

Out the corner of my eye I can always see that which I spilled my life's work into. It no longer looks beautiful and inviting, not to my ruined, painful eyes. It's sinister and seems to clutch at me, as if it will never let me go. And they're always arriving, filling it with the sound of their laughter, it's lights shining out as though from the many mouths of hell.