I awoke with dried blood underneith my fingernails and caked on my left leg. Standing in the mirror, I could have easily passed as some addled victim of a war-torn country; i mussed up my hair to add effect. I quickly got over the wonder of my new apperance, and began pondering why the blood was there in the first place. Huge scratches ran up and down my thigh that had not been there last night. The window was open, but unless mesquitos had significantly grown in size/power, they weren't the problem. The door was bolted shut, so no psychopaths could have taken their knives to me.

And then, I remembered the dream.

Wil was standing at the edge of a cliff, remarking on the beautiful scenery below him. As per usual, I hated his guts, so I decided to kill him. I went up right behind him and pushed as hard as I could, so that he fell right off the cliff. Somehow I had miscalculated how this was going to work because, all of a sudden, all he had hold of was my leg. He was clawing at it desperatly, begging me to let him up. Feeling no remorse, I stood there until I woke up, enjoying his screams of terror.

In the dream, Wil had scratched up my leg. In real life, it was me. Somehow, my subconcious decided that I'm not in enough pain, physical or otherwise. So, I create flesh wounds while I sleep. Hurrah.