(no subject)
You're lying on your side, paralyzed. You feel cottony, unfocused.
There's someone at the exposed trunk of your body. You're not in any kind of position to see it, but you see it anyway. See him. In the way dreams are, you're him at the same time that you're you. You don't see yourself or him clearly at all.
He has what you know is a scalpel. Those don't usually have circular blades that whine like dentist's drills, but this one does.
With his other hand, he touches you. Pets the pale hairs on your chest like you're a dog. They're soft and even, though you know they're usually not.
It's sickening. But you can't move. You can't speak.
You can't do anything.
He pats you absently, says something - later you can't remember what - and starts to cut into you, one long vertical line. It feels cold, more than painful, but a wave of revulsion spreads through you.
You can't do anything.
Blood spreads into the pale hairs around the incision, dying you an intense, oversaturated crimson. The cut gapes open. The inside of your body isn't dark.
It's packed with - what? Hand-sized glowing maggots? Blue-white fruits with thin, wet skins? Pulsing elongated eggs? Fat, stubby tentacles? They're connected to each other like grapes, to stems as red as your blood, and they writhe slowly in the air. Blood and clear syrup run out of the opening, slick and a little sticky to his fingers. During the dream this seems completely normal; you don't think of what internal organs are supposed to look like at all.
But you do know that this isn't supposed to happen, this should never happen.
You can't do anything.
He reaches into you and it's horrible. The pain is nothing compared to the electric shocks of the sensation, fingers moving inside your body, forcing themselves deeper. You shudder with each movement, but you can't do anything else. Maybe worse is the feeling behind it - shock, helpless frustration, betrayal.
Or the fact that he's not doing this out of malice. He's cheerful - he's actually humming in that pleasant tenor of his. He's doing it out of curiosity - and because he knows he can.
Your organs have all the resistance of deflated playpen balls. They're wet and almost hot against his roving hand and arm.
He stops questing about when he finds something harder, not as yielding, not as hot. The first time he tries to pull at it his fingers slip in the syrup, but he takes a firmer grip and hauls, having to reach his other hand in, and when he gets it to protrude from the incision - it's a small, limp hand, fingers curled loosely.
He lets go, and for a moment he does nothing but stare at it. It's a girl's hand. There's a girl's hand and arm sticking out of a cut he made in you, brown skinned, coated with blood and thick syrup, cool to the touch. The fingernails are painted blue. He touches it again - and shoves it back inside, and continues to reach around.
You're paralyzed. You can't do a thing.
The dream doesn't end so much as it just stops, just... dissolves into nothing. But the feeling of someone just reaching into you lingers for a few seconds longer.
There's someone at the exposed trunk of your body. You're not in any kind of position to see it, but you see it anyway. See him. In the way dreams are, you're him at the same time that you're you. You don't see yourself or him clearly at all.
He has what you know is a scalpel. Those don't usually have circular blades that whine like dentist's drills, but this one does.
With his other hand, he touches you. Pets the pale hairs on your chest like you're a dog. They're soft and even, though you know they're usually not.
It's sickening. But you can't move. You can't speak.
You can't do anything.
He pats you absently, says something - later you can't remember what - and starts to cut into you, one long vertical line. It feels cold, more than painful, but a wave of revulsion spreads through you.
You can't do anything.
Blood spreads into the pale hairs around the incision, dying you an intense, oversaturated crimson. The cut gapes open. The inside of your body isn't dark.
It's packed with - what? Hand-sized glowing maggots? Blue-white fruits with thin, wet skins? Pulsing elongated eggs? Fat, stubby tentacles? They're connected to each other like grapes, to stems as red as your blood, and they writhe slowly in the air. Blood and clear syrup run out of the opening, slick and a little sticky to his fingers. During the dream this seems completely normal; you don't think of what internal organs are supposed to look like at all.
But you do know that this isn't supposed to happen, this should never happen.
You can't do anything.
He reaches into you and it's horrible. The pain is nothing compared to the electric shocks of the sensation, fingers moving inside your body, forcing themselves deeper. You shudder with each movement, but you can't do anything else. Maybe worse is the feeling behind it - shock, helpless frustration, betrayal.
Or the fact that he's not doing this out of malice. He's cheerful - he's actually humming in that pleasant tenor of his. He's doing it out of curiosity - and because he knows he can.
Your organs have all the resistance of deflated playpen balls. They're wet and almost hot against his roving hand and arm.
He stops questing about when he finds something harder, not as yielding, not as hot. The first time he tries to pull at it his fingers slip in the syrup, but he takes a firmer grip and hauls, having to reach his other hand in, and when he gets it to protrude from the incision - it's a small, limp hand, fingers curled loosely.
He lets go, and for a moment he does nothing but stare at it. It's a girl's hand. There's a girl's hand and arm sticking out of a cut he made in you, brown skinned, coated with blood and thick syrup, cool to the touch. The fingernails are painted blue. He touches it again - and shoves it back inside, and continues to reach around.
You're paralyzed. You can't do a thing.
The dream doesn't end so much as it just stops, just... dissolves into nothing. But the feeling of someone just reaching into you lingers for a few seconds longer.