WWW #35 – Slipped – Texte #3

Déjà vu

par Ninefifteen

D’aussi loin que je me souvienne, j’ai toujours été hantée par le même cauchemar. Le genre d’histoire récurrente qui vous colle à la peau comme une créature poisseuse engluée à votre dos, vous accompagnant partout, silencieuse et invisible… et dont personne ne peut soupçonner l’existence.

Créature qui se révèle à la nuit tombée, lorsque, malgré la peur de vous endormir et faire ce cauchemar, vous succombez à l’épuisement.

Le mien se présente sous la forme d’un couloir interminable dans lequel je cours éperdument, fuyant je ne sais qui ou quoi. Parfois ce couloir dispose de portes latérales — mais elles sont toujours verrouillées —, parfois même de fenêtres — rien à en tirer non plus. Je n’ai d’autre choix que d’aller tout droit.

Parfois l’entité qui me poursuit me rattrape — heureusement ou pas, je me réveille avant d’avoir une chance de l’apercevoir.

Parfois aussi, rarement, j’atteins le bout du couloir. Souvent une porte s’y trouve.

Mais elle ne s’ouvre jamais. Continue reading

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WWW #35 – Slipped – Text #2

Slipped
by B. 

He was observing her. She was standing there preparing their supper, with the same enthusiasm she always applied to her daily tasks. Smooth and sculptural, grounded yet dreamy, soft and surprising. He knew he loved her still.

She looked unchanged. So unaware. How could she not notice the tension that was rising within him? He thought she knew him better than that, did she not? It was burning at his core now. He would not be able to hold it in much longer. Yet she was there, going about cheerfully. Singing softly. Improvising on the acoustic tune that was playing on the stereo. It felt as if she were a vision. She had come to visit him from their past. Transported. Transposed. Unaffected.

In his heart though, it felt like everything had changed. He felt heavy. Burdened. He wished he could just erase from his mind, what had happened last night. How useless! He could not even blame it on alcohol. He would not. He remembered everything. He was conscious of everything. He had felt everything. He was in control. He could still sense that foreign lingering touch on his skin. That scent. He forced himself to chase that residual image from his conscious mind.

He ought it to her, to them, to keep away from it.

He let his eyes wander over her body. Continue reading