DREAMS ARE THE PLAYGROUND of the unconscious mind. They are the place thoughts go to when the bell goes and the eyes close. With slides and swings and old fashioned witches' hats, dreams allow the brain to relax, have fun and recoup from the strains and excesses of the day.

Nightmares are the playground bullies. They invade dreams, pushing thoughts to the ground and demanding their lunch money or they'll be snatched up in a whirlwind of fear. Nightmares come and go as they please, causing you to cry out in your sleep or awake suddenly, dripping with sweat, breathless. A nightmare can conjure the shadowy beasts from the forgotten prisons of your memories, unlocking the cages and setting them free to haunt you.

For Megan, the nightmares wasted little effort in their discovery of her fears. She held them out for all to see before her as the yard sale of hurt, everything under one pound. Being the bullies they were, the nightmares took the fears, snatching them and kicking over the rickety supports they'd been held up by. They then turned them inside out whilst Megan slept. They shredded the guts of her troubled past and threw them on a pyre, dancing in the flames. She felt the flames licking her body, relishing the savaged pseudo-flesh of sleep. They seared through her, causing her to writhe on the sofa where she lay. She whimpered out loud but screamed internally, her voice echoing across the dreamscape, causing the nightmares to roar in victorious delight.

The skin on her body started to blister where her imaginary flesh burned. Real and surreal blended, as what was done to one so was done to the other. Whips of fire thrashed at her, raising welts on her arms and torso as she twisted in terror, barely managing to stay on the sofa's cushions. She tried to escape the dream, to flee the nightmarish punishment, but she could not. She was held by shackles of her own making. In her fists were clenched the hearts she had destroyed. Around her wrists, still pulsing with the heartbeat they should no longer have had, were the arteries. They wrapped themselves tightly, weaving over and around each other until they formed a throbbing binding.

The lashes moved to her back and increased their ferocity. They sliced her skin, exposing the muscle before cutting that, too, with each stroke. Blood began to ooze from her corporeal body, soaking into the fabric of the couch and creating a macabre Rorschach pattern. Would she see butterflies or beasts? Moths or her mother?

Finally, the firebrands were drawn back, high, before smashing down on her back. They carved their way through her, piercing her organs, rupturing her heart. As the dream-Megan slumped against her restraints, the material one rolled to the edge of the cushions and fell to the floor. The nightmares dissolved in her mind, their work complete. They had done well. They would celebrate.

Across Megan's back were two vertical lesions. Blood dripped from them. With no cushion to seep into, it pooled on the hardwood floor, a crimson halo around her. Megan slept on, whimpering slightly. At least the nightmares had departed. The remainder of her sleep was almost uninterrupted except for an ache on either side of her spine.

She did wake once in the middle of the night. The moon was high in the cloudless sky, a single eye looking down on her. For some, it might have been a protective gaze. It may have been one of succour for her, or it could have been a look of derision. She watched it through eyes bleary with sleep, her face damp with tears without realising she had been crying. Her back was an agonising contortion that sent waves of pain through her as she moved. She tried to stand but couldn't and collapsed, half on the sofa and half on the floor, a rumpled Picasso slipping back into a fitful but dreamless slumber.

Morning came and stayed for a while, expecting to be greeted by the lonely girl in the log cabin. When no greeting came, it moved on to welcome those in other parts of the world, people who would be happy to see its breaking dawn. Noon drifted into evening, to be followed swiftly by night. Megan missed the arrival and departure of each as her unconscious body sought to recover from the onslaught of the nightmares. When morning stopped by again the next day, determined not to be bypassed again, it encouraged the day to begin with a song. The birds took wing and filled the air with their bright calls.

When Megan still refused to wake, or move, the birds flew closer, their songs becoming shouts. Wake up! Ignored, they settled on the window sill and started to tap at the glass. The windows were strengthened to keep out the bitter winters, so muted the beaks. Frustrated, the birds flew away to be joined by masses more, a huge cloud of black moving as a single creature. As one, they threw themselves at the window, hundreds of drumbeats threatening but failing to break the glass. Some of the feathered missiles spun back to hit again, others dropped to the ground, their necks broken on impact.

Megan's eyes opened suddenly. In the instant they did, the birds stopped their barrage and flew away. A flurry of small animals scurried to the pile of dead and carried them away, food for them and their families. By the time she'd focussed on where she was and turned her head to see if any wine remained, there was no sign of the winged salvo.

She pushed herself up, needing to roll off the sofa as it was easier than trying to stand straight. Dizziness took her for a second and she had to wait for the room to stop spinning before she dared move. Dragging her feet, she went to the bathroom, relieving herself before washing her hands and looking in the mirror.

She looked awful. Her hair was a chaotic nest of vipers, sticking out in all directions except down. Her eyes were reddened and sagging, the baggage she carried constantly weighing on them. She shook her head. Even though she had always left a trail of devastation in her wake, she had, at least, looked after her appearance. She never looked this way to anyone, including herself. She imagined her mother to look like this. Exhausted. Spent.

Megan turned on the tap and bent down to wash her hands and splash her face. As she bowed, pain shot outwards from her spine. She stood up, sharply, arching her back as her extremities throbbed from the spasm. Gasping, she fell forward, her hands just catching the basin before her head connected with the mirror. She staggered, panting.

The pain faded for a moment, then returned a hundredfold. Agony coursed through her. She screamed, and the nightmares flashed back into her mind gleefully to remind her of the torment they'd inflicted.

She heard the ripping sound. She felt her skin tearing. She sobbed, the scream being strangled by the wounds opening along her back. Her fingers gripped the ceramic, making the knuckles white and bulging. Blood ran across her buttocks and down her legs. She stared at it, unable to comprehend that it didn't belong to someone else.

Her back was on fire, the fire that had burned in her dreams. She vomited, spraying the basin and her hands.

Abruptly, the pain ceased.

Megan struggled to draw breath. She couldn't move. Couldn't lift her head or shift her back. Shock immobilised her and, for a moment, she had forgotten how to use her body. Slowly, her neck remembered what to do and she looked at herself again. She raised her hands, ignoring the puke, and turned them, making sure they were hers. That she was awake and alive. Again, she returned her gaze to her reflection.

She gasped. Her eyes grew wide. Her hands dropped to her side and her mouth opened as if to speak. No sound came forth.

Slowly, she turned her head to look behind her. Slowly, she bent her arm to touch. Slowly, realisation dawned like the morning sun.

From her back, so tall the tips trailed across the floor and so wide they touched either wall, hung a pair of perfect, beautiful and impossible black wings.