Request ✔️

There are still times when you wake up in a cold sweat and clutching the sheets so tightly the cloth wrinkles even when you've let go of it. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest and you can still feel the chill you felt in your nightmare.

"A dream," you whimper again and again.  "It's just a dream."

Your own personal mantra to ward off the monsters in your head.

It was the same dream. The nightmare of being locked up in that goddamn coffin again. You were bound, in the dark and begging for mercy, apologizing, scrambling around for words that would appease him.

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"You're being a bad girl again, _____. I have to punish you."

"No, please," you managed to say through your choking sobs, "I love you, I love you. Don't do this."

"I'll be back for you in a day or two, I expect you to have repented by then."

"Please!"

And then the coffin would slam shut. Bound, you were helpless as the sound of him driving the nails into your coffin drowned out your cries and pleas for help.

Undertaker called it discipline. You called it torture. He didn't like your fire. He didn't like your sass, your snark, your sarcasm or your witty comebacks. So he took care of it. 

"How do you quench wildfire, _____?" He would ask as he bound your hands and legs. "You don't add water, you take away the oxygen. Take away one of the catalysts and it'll die down. No oxygen means no combustion."

So he would lock you up in that coffin. And in that coffin, you found yourself slowly slipping. He'd lock you in there as many times as it took, until you were the docile little doll he wanted.

In the darkness, in the silence, you lost yourself. And he liked it that way.

"What is it, _____?" He asks as he shifts in your bed. "Nightmares?"

"It's nothing," you said, still not entirely sure of yourself, "it was nothing at all."

You remember.

That wasn't a dream.

It was a memory.