Nyctophilia

I am standing in the front yard. Dusk approaches. The sky begins a pleasant blue, then brims over into shades of red an violet with sunset. There was a breeze in the air, to my remembrance. My mother lies upon the ground, wounded. The nature of her wound is an enigma, but all I know is she is dying and lying in a lake of her own blood. As I pick her up in my arms, my heart beats. I carry her to a truck in the driveway and place her in the back. I then realize that this is no ordinary truck, rather it is something I have seen in many other dreams.

If you were to sit in the back of this unholy truck while it moved, you would begin to rapidly age. The further the truck drove, the older one would become. Yet, in this moment of horror, it is the only way to save my mother from imminent death. As I take my seat in the passenger's side, I observe a stranger at the wheel. It is a man who wears a brown trench coat and thick-soled black boots, leather gloves, and a long black top-hat. He wears what I remember as a porcelain clown mask over his face. He waits for my command and he drives down the road, heading towards the hospital. As we cruise down the road, I see the surroundings outside of the truck transform magnificently. The earthly colors begin to change and I am going through what can only be described as a vortex of dark colors. Blue, purple, green, and pink. Solids become gasses, pass by as vapors all around me. Finally as we come to a stop, everything returns to normal. I step out of the truck, locate my mother. She has deteriorated into a gaunt, emaciated old woman with silver hair and at the brink of death. If her wound would not kill her, age would.

And age did.