I stopped having nightmares when I was in 3rd grade. I recall being in the middle of a nightmare, but realizing I was dreaming. At that point, I left the danger because I knew I wouldn’t get hurt. I haven’t had a terror since I harnessed the power of lucid dreaming.
However, indulge me. I’ll concoct a nightmare for now:

I was in my house, in Joliet, Illinois. The same estate I occupied for the past years of my life. I awoke to the same florescent teal and butterflied walls I had had since the 5th grade. I stumbled on the same off white carpet, down the same brown on beige hallway and had nothing to do for the day, no prospects for the future, and severe facial acne. I was stuck in a routine and had a slight twinge of deja vu. I looked out the kitchen window and the tree that was planted my 7th grade year had grown. I had not. I trudged back to bed. Later that day, I went to a dive bar called Crow’s Nest with a cheesecake and was surrounded by uninteresting people who were content with pipe dreams, restrained by self imposed boundaries, smoked pot, talked about drinking, gossiped, were angry at the world and drink themselves into a hunched stupor. [Yes, I recently read Eugene O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh]

AND THEATRE AND ART AND LITERATURE AND CRITICAL THINKING DIDN’T EXIST.
I WAS LOST IN A PIT OF SELF LOATHING AND HOPELESSNESS.
AND THEN I DID IT AGAIN THE NEXT DAY.
AND THE DAY AFTER. AND THE FOLLOWING DAY.
UNTIL I DIED AND NO ONE CAME TO MY FUNERAL BECAUSE I HAD NO FRIENDS AND EVERYONE I LOVED WAS DEAD.

The end.