Writing Prompt: The Nightmare With a Clipboard

As part of a writing prompt, the wonderful folk over at io9 put up the below picture. Yours truly decided to give it a whirl. The following story is the result. Enjoy!

Image titled "Nightmare" from Imaginism Studios' Bobby Chiu and Chris Sanders, via The Art of Animation

Given the circumstances, subject 19, or Colin as the boys in admin had begun referring to him, had one of the finer rooms amongst the study group. His bed was plush and akin to that of a cloud, so they were told. A human cloud. One of those white ones that resembled an out of focus lump of brain. Not like the clouds back home thought Devigora the Forsaken One, of the Buckingham Forsaken Ones. Back home they appeared to be composed of an endless black tinged with a poisonous green. Lightning the colour of dry blood would leap across their surfaces followed by a thunder akin to that of a rockslide grinding bones into dust. They were really quite beautiful. Human clouds were so dull and clean it's a wonder they even bothered to look up.
Devigora shifted her clipboard into a more comfortable position.
"Now then, 19, in our last session you showed a remarkable amount of resilience to our spiders program. Even the newer version with the nasal infiltration. The folks upstairs are really quite impressed."
"Muh...spi...ders...muh-nuh," shivered Colin, eyes wide and staring into oblivion.
"Oh, 19. You really do give the best feedback." Devigora beamed, her fangs shining with an otherworldly moonlight.
Frankly in this line of work getting any form of coherent nonsense out of the inane babbling was like getting blood from a stone (not the bleeding rocks of Stav'nuk'gahar, that would be silly). But Colin was actually quite clear and responsive. He even stopped wetting the bed several months earlier. A real trooper this one.
"Now since you're showing such promise it's only right that you get as much of a reward out of this as we do working on yo--with you. I mean we're not monsters!" She looked genuinely  hurt by the very idea. Why, this was important work. The company was responsible for some of the most twisted and depraved thoughts and dreams known to mankind. Waterboarding? Them. Serial killers? Them. Reality TV? Them. If it wasn't for Them certain works in the human world may never have existed. Stephen King would be crunching numbers at a tire dealership. Hannibal Lecter might have been a great ficitonal hero of the medical world. Though that Lovecraft fellow was a complete anomaly and studies are still being undertaken to make sense of it. Common theory suggests he was actually half human, half Nightmare. This also suggests a level of kink amongst his parents that doesn't bear thinking about.
The wyrm beneath Devigora inched forward, hot reeking breath brushing Colin's ear. It was hungry. It's bat-like nose could smell the fear emanating from subject 19 and this stirred it's eight stomachs. Soon to be nine if it moved any closer. That's the problem with smoke-wyrms; the longer they get there more there is to feed.
"Fwuh pff r-reward...?" See? Colin was a pro.
"That's right, 19. If you give us the best you can give from the next stage of programming, we're willing to give you a little vacation. You may even be passed over altogether during your little sojourn and not have to come back at all." This of course was a complete lie. The efficiency and mental anguish department determined that the best subjects, like Colin, eventually put up little blocks that prevented them from experiencing the worst programmes. Or they went mad and gave false data. Humans were very selfish.
"Buh-buh sca...scared...muh-mee," whimpered Colin. He couldn't see Devigora and the wyrm, not really, only feel they were near and think there was something in the furthest reaches of the corner of his eye. He would fall asleep again soon, though he didn't want to. Waking up in his own room again. Fortunately he had begun to remember less and less of what it was that kept him awake in the dark.
Devigora rolled her eyes at the mention of subject 19's mother, then regretted the accompanying head motion. The ethereal wind that kept her hair afloat and gave her the natural grace and beauty renowned amongst the Buckingham Forsaken Ones, occasionally blew strands the wrong way. This phantom breeze had knotted some strands about a horn. Beauty was such a curse.
A shudder from the wyrm signalled that the programme was ready for insertion. It showed promise this new programme. Something to do with maggots and hunger and patriarchal death.
Colin twitched once more then drifted off into not-so-peaceful slumber. Devigora marked some boxes on her clipboard, fidgeting all the while. Smoke-wyrms were fantastic for inspiring terror and delivering news to their riders. But they were terrible office chairs.