Nightmare
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A drop of sweat falls down his forehead.
His body feels sticky.
His mind is in chaos.
Nightmare did a good job in him.
4:03 am says the clock.
He plots down in his bed and stares at the ceiling.
The people he killed are haunting him.
He can't fall back asleep; as usual.
He glances at the thing next to the clock. It's a keychain in a form of a strawberry.
He glares at it, takes it and throws it across the room.
Stupid keychain. Stupid nightmare.
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