I was with Sean, in a very large industrial building. There was music playing, bass thumping, guitars screaming. People danced about like retards in the throws of an epileptic seizure. My head began to ache, and we left out the back.
We stood for a moment upon our exit into the open and surveyed the situation. We were high up in the air, on top of what looked like a very sturdy fire escape. It had metal stairs on both ends of the platform, though, and we went down. There were several of these platforms, all with a flight of stairs at both ends. When we made it to the bottom, we had to make our way through this yard. It was old, depressed, looked like the sunlight had never touched it, and may never. There were large, metal skeletons of ancient machines that we skirted around, dropped willy-nilly in strange places.
Finally, we made our way out a towering metal gate. I turned to look back at the stone monolith we had left behind. Everything in my vision began to shimmer, to waver, as though surpressing a shudder.
Looking forward, there were people on the streets. Strange people, mostly dressed industrial or punk. Streetlights bled steady puddles of strange orange light. Doors were open, yawning mouths. We proceeded down the street, close, but not touching.
Out of nowhere, with sickening speed, someone reached out and grabbed Sean by the shoulder. I ripped the attacker off, threw him down onto the ground, and Sean whipped around with his arm cocked to punch the bastard in the face. I looked at who we had.
It was male, strangely human. Paper white skin, huge dark pools of eyes, and jagged pointy teeth. His blonde hair was oily, cut jaw length in the front, parted down the middle and nearly shaved in the back. It fell in his face. His limbs bent backwards, and he appeared as a spider, turned upside down. I grabbed Sean's arm.
"It's just a silly little punk in white makeup," I said. "Not worth the effort."
Sean turned without a word, and we walked away without a look back. We turned a corner. I could hear the motherfucker screaming obscenities at us, promising he would get even.
At some point, we stopped and we were sitting on a step, smoking cigarettes, and I suddenly looked around and screamed for my dog. "NICKY!"
I ran to the end of the street, screaming for him all the way. "NICKY! NICKY!"
At the end of the street, his sweet, scraggly little face peered around. He looked so sad. I ran to him, and as I did, he stretched forth his front legs and showed me. Some bastard had chopped off his left front paw, and it was bleeding. I scooped him up, proud of my poor, courageous little doggy, who came to me even with such a horrible injury.
I began to walk back toward the club. Everywhere I looked, whatever my eyes touched immediately combusted. Sean was behind me, I could feel him there, but I didn't bother to stop to see where he was. Anger welled in my soul, that someone would torment and torture a poor, innocent soul and cripple it out of malice or spite. I could feel heat. My eyes burned, but not with tears. Heat singed my nostrils, as though I were trying to breathe in close proximity to a fire.
As I approached the club, I saw the punk that had attacked us. He was grinning. I put Nicky down on the ground, bent over him, said something. Nicky jerked and shook like he does after a bath, and when I looked again, his paw was healed.
I turned my attention to the punk. I concentrated on him. I unleashed all of my wrath and anger, channeling it directly into him. He stood, paralyzed. His eyes began to bulge as though they were filled with liquid. His forehead swelled, growing obscenely. His hands disintigrated, one finger at a time, until they laid in piles of ash at his feet. He stared in horror through his stretched out eyes. His bleached out skin began to flake off, hideous holes opening in his face and neck. Fire burst through his chest from the inside. In seconds, he was consumed.
And then... I woke up.