Night. A vast, barren field. Rain.
A figure lies in fetal position in the middle of the field. Rain soaks the person's clothes, wets the hair and the water collects in small rivulets around the figure. Somewhere near, a bolt of thunder strikes hungrily on the naked earth's bosom. The figure wakes up, startled by the crash of thunder a voice in its throat rises up, somewhere between screaming and crying.
He closes his eyes against the rain and lifts his hand over his eyes to shade them and look around himself. He feels the water cascading down his face and licks the droplets from his lips. Water is something new and amazing and he takes his time to savor the strange wetness and the unknown taste of the liquid.
At the edge of the field an orange light slowly blinks like a beacon calling him home. He gets up and starts walking towards the blinking light. The walk through the muddy field strips him of both his shoes and lower parts of his jeans are soon the black, brown color of field mud. Something in the collecting water swims past his feet and he quickens his pace towards the light that now blinks with a rabid urgency.
He crosses the field, jumps over a small pool of water and steps on the road. The light transforms into a complete vehicle as he draws nearer. A woman's body lies half slumped out of the door of the vehicle and blood pours down her cracked skull, collecting in its own small pool near the wheel. Something in the sight looks hauntingly familiar to him but the thought swims away like a shark before the harpoon of memory can pierce its hide. He lifts the woman's hand and tries to drag it out of the car, but the she is trapped by his seatbelt. Somehow, unlike water, he is familiar with the concept of seatbelts, and as he leans in the car to free the woman from his seatbelt, a hand slowly caresses his neck. Fingers, wrinkled with rain water, touch his neck in such a loving way that he would have preferred it if he didn't know it was the dead woman's hand.
"It's so good to see you again, hon," the dead woman's throat croaks.
He lifts his neck slowly and looks at the other figure slumped on the steering wheel. The seatbelt has chopped him into two pieces and the torso lies comically stuck on the wheel by its own blood and staring straight at him. The realization that the body is his own shyly knocks its way into his head. The fingers caressing his neck, now encircle his throat slowly, each finger growing abnormally long and the nail skewering into his skin.
"Hon, you never got the brake fluid changed, did you?" the dead woman's voice speaks again.
"I did dear, I did." he tells the same lie for the third time in the day.
Scared? Bewildered? Shocked? None of the above? Oh well, maybe kicking this link will help.
More keeps on coming.