He's breaking free...He's almost there, hands clenching the inside of his shirt as if he were searching for his heart. He's struggling, the blanket wrapping around him like vines as they fight to strangle the poor fool and perhaps keep him in eternal slumber, never to see morning's finger like rays. A breath so heavy as his breaking free is as if a beast is searching for an escape from this imprisonment, this shallow vessel that seems to twist and writhe in Dante’s nocturne inferno. Sweat glazes the top of his brow and the weeping and thrashing continues as he beats down against his bed in uncontrollable rage coupled with a restless slumber as he battles against the inescapable sand man. A nightmare; it had to be a nightmare. What else could cause such mayhem without opening weary eyes?
"Wake up child!" A cane breaks through the apocalypse night and the seemingly unlockable doors to the man's eyes. Night's unfazing glare seems to have waged war with the boy's eyes and it takes him quite a while to differentiate where that cold voice was emanating from. A shadow contrasting against the pale moon in the sky seems to hover above him, that cane latched onto the illusion with horrifyingly close distance to the boy's head as it grins nefariously
"You've had a nightmare." He says with a chuckle as he breaks out a very old and worn out pipe, the fingerprints and scorched wood marks seem almost carved into its handle. The faint ember breaking from his match eliminates the world, painting the room in its damp colors and revealing the tempered face of the elder clad in professional attire that might arouse the thought that he is some strange brand of teacher coming to supply knowledge at strange hours.
With a trembling hand and dancing fingers, the boy wipes the sweat and fear from his face, failing miserably with the latter. "Wh-Who are y-you."
“Mockery, Jack Mockery, it’s a pleasure, I’m sure.” He says, his voice resonating out as he extends a leg over the window sill, a beckoning hand tailing behind him.
“Hurry up. Don’t keep an old man waiting, Vincent” that voice, empty as the shell it echoes from, reverberates out forth; a wink and the frail looking figure is out and roaming the barren streets of the quaint suburbia
‘Who is this man?”
“Come on, boy!"

OOC:What is this OOC thing, hmm? Well I'm sorry that this thing isn't as user friendly as I thought it might have been but maybe the next post will be better. I still think that I've got alot of work to do before I get out of this writer's block thing, hense my name.