My grip on what's real and what isn't has really been deteriorating. Yes, I'm aware just how contradictory that seems; me being self aware of my own descent into what I'd wager with every dime I have to my name on some sort of mental illness where most wouldn't even think anything's wrong in the slightest. Then again I'm dangerously close to being caught in the middle of the classic Catch-22. Literally, the one described in the book. If I'm able to realize that I'm going crazy, am I really going crazy?

Well, right now I'm walking down what appears to be a marked path in Hell, so maybe I shouldn't be taking psychological analysis from an Anti War book.

Yeah, I'm walking around in Hell. I don't know why, or how, or any of the factors leading up to this; it's almost as if I'm some kind of fictional character and the author is a lazy bastard who couldn't be bothered coming up with an explanation for why I'm here. No, that's ridiculous. There has to be some other, more logical explanation. Maybe I had my mind wiped by some diabolical memory eraser beam held by Satan or something. Wait a second, which religion does this prove the existence of, if any? I swear if it was Mormons...

That train of thought gets cut off by the sound of heavy footsteps smashing into whatever material it is that makes up the ground in this nightmarish scenario. Wait a second, that's it! I'm dreaming! My word, I'm pretty daft as to not come up with that conclusion the second I found myself here. Oh well, better late than never I suppose.

I feel something wrapped up in my right hand. Something incredibly light; to the point where if I didn't feel my fingers and palm holding it place for dear life, I probably wouldn't have noticed I was carrying it. I look to my right, only to be only slightly surprised to see that the thing in my hand is actually a medieval lance. Only slightly because again, I'm in Hell. Or Utah. Either way, the horrors of my current situation make the sheer novelty of having a medieval lance in hand something of a joke. As in, I'm actually laughing. Well, more giggling like a cross between a demented kindergartner and an even more demented and incidentally more annoying kindergartner but it counts nonetheless.

That giggling stops when the source of the heavy stomps comes into view. Lumbering, heavy footsteps draw closer and closer, and as I look away from the lance I come face to face with it. What it is, I'm not sure. It's, something vaguely humanoid, with pale red skin, except around its eyes, which are a dark grey. From the waist up, it's built like a human and a well built one at that but at the hips on downward that humanoid look gives way to something almost dog like. Mangy tuffs of what I assume to be fur coat every inch below its fur and before I can even think to raise my definitely not heavy enough to do any real damage of any kind lance, it roars. A guttural, growling roar that makes me backpedal shakily, as if any step could be the one that makes my legs give out.

And one does. Like a typical horror movie. The whole "being a fictional character" thing makes a little more sense now, but still is farfetched. Why I'm thinking about that, and how this isn't farfetched to that level or beyond is baffling to me.

Falling against the squishy, yet firm ground of this cesspool, I try to reach for the lance but it's fallen beyond my armspan. Shaking and breathing in jagged, shallow gasps for air, I inch my body along the ground closer to the weapon before the beast drops its massive leg down in the middle of my path. My breaths become more labored and manic as I try desperately to bring in air. I roll over onto my back to see the thing staring down at me, a smile on its hideous face. I hadn't noticed it prior but in addition to its discolored eyes, a series of long scars run across its cheeks and forehead and its teeth were crooked and black; rotted beyond the core. My eyes widen and I try to crawl away.

Again, typical horror movie. That's the weird part about me though. I lampshade all these things but I never think to not do them.

The monster continues stepping towards me as I continue to back away, silently crying and cowering. Then, I see an opening. It hasn't even looked back at the lance so as it draws closer, I roll wildly to the right and push myself up to my feet with a sudden burst of adrenaline rushing through my veins. I sprint as fast as my wobbly legs can take me over to the lance, sliding on my knees a few feet from it, either for style or because I legitimately thought that would make me faster. Either way I make it there just it turns around and grab the lance, holding it out in front of my body for dear life.

It lets out a hearty, thundering roar of a laugh before locking its eyes with mine. Then, almost like a bull seeing red, it kicks its foot back a couple of time before charging forward towards me as I scramble back up to my feet again. With heavy breaths and light thinking I do what any rational person would do in a situation like this: stand absolutely still and hold the lance upwards and at an angle right where the thing could see and dodge.

And luckily for me it doesn't.

It runs headfirst, well, grey eyesocket first into the tip of the lance. Stopping dead in its tracks, its entire body goes limp, supported by only my strength and the lance.

The former gives out pretty quickly.

And again I fall, only this time with the monster right on top of me. On the descent, the lance jerks upwards or its eye jerks downwards, forcing more and more of the weapon into his eyesocket before the very tip of it starts to poke out through the back of its skull.

Then more of the lance comes out of its head.

All the way until it hits the very base of the lance and gets stuck. Still pinned to the ground underneath the weight of the dead beast, I hear screaming and tense up.

That is until I blink, and upon opening my eyes I see myself trying to jam my thumb into the eyesocket of my roommate Kara, who's fallen on top of me more than likely in an attempt at waking me up. I lower my hand back down to my side and roll over onto my right side, looking towards my curtains to see that there is sunlight attempting to peek in. Note to self, I do not need new curtains.

"What the fuck was that for you psycho bitch?"

"Sorry. Bad dream."

"Well maybe if you didn't drink yourself into a coma every night, you'd have some normal fucking dreams."

Yeah...

"Maybe."