Dysphoria; noun, a state of unease or generalized dissatisfaction with life.

With his cheek resting on the dingy toilet seat, squeezed inside this cramp bathroom on his knees, both definitions perfectly fit Mr. Lemony Snicket right now.

He was completely disheveled. His face was wet with tears and sweat dripped off of him, some of which slipped down into the toilet mixing with his vomit. Snicket waited until he had gathered himself to send his supper swirling down into the sewers. He carefully stood, holding onto the sink for support.

Turning on the faucet, Snicket splashed his face with freezing water and massaged his temples while breathing slowly. He then shut off the water and awkwardly shuffled out of the broom closet-sized bathroom. His hand trailed across the wall as he carefully maneuvered through his dimly lit abode and back to his bedroom - well, the living room that is. His current base of operations unfortunately did not provide a bedroom; however, there was no need to complain, it was better than nothing.

Snicket let out an exasperated sigh as he stared down at his couch-bed. It was bedraggled, a word which here means "a complete and utter mess". Lemony excelled at taking once neat, tidy beds of all kinds and ruining them with little to no effort. It was all thanks to his nearly constant night terrors. They always sent him into a fury, wildly kicking off the sheets and tossing pillows over board. This nightmare that had sent him pounding for the toilet had been particularly nerve-racking as evident by pillows tossed all over the living room, none even close to his couch-bed. The sheets had been brutally mangled too and - fiddlesticks, he had actually put a very noticeable tear in one sheet.

He salvaged the survivors of his midnight rampage and repaired his couch-bed as best as he could. Usually, Snicket could (somewhat) easily suppress any thoughts relating to an upsetting nightmare and then fall back asleep.

This one couldn't easily be pushed aside.

His nightmare had started off as a memory - one of his few, genuinely happy ones. They were embracing each other,, Lemony running his calloused fingers through her silky hair. There was no resistance, the locks happily parted for his fingers and he repeated this action. She was snuggled against him, her face pressed into his chest. Their surroundings were blurry but they were laying down on a bed - an actual bed, not a couch-bed.

This warm memory played on until Lemony could feel a cough swell up in his throat. Being a considerate gentleman, he turned his head so as not to cough onto her. The coughing didn't stop however, it only worsen becoming more violent and louder. Suddenly, he felt something gooey slip through his fingers. He glanced back over at her and saw that she was - oh good god, she was melting. Snicket threw himself off the bed and fell onto a hard floor. His entire front was - was soaked with her. To make matters even worse Snicket was still coughing during this, gasping for air. Suddenly, he hacked up some flakes of ash which soon turned into an entire stream of ash cascading out his mouth.

Lemony shakily looked back towards the bed and...her head was melting off the bedside. It was still intact as opposed to the rest of her which dripped down, however...portions of her face were badly scorched and her beautiful hair burnt down to the roots.

When her head was at eye-level with him, hers and Lemony's eyes shot open.

Clips from this unpleasant, horrid dream replayed inside his head; her haunting, dead eyes refusing to leave. Not able to afford another sleepless night, Snicket arose from the couch-bed once more and stumbled over to his trusty typewriter. It sat not far from him in the corner perched atop a milk carton. He lowered himself down and began mindlessly typing away. What he typed was utter nonsense, it was just to calm his nerves and drive his mind away from the nightmare. It worked and eventually Lemony fell asleep on the floor near it.

He dreamed of nothing but blackness next.