:: memory three :: dream revisted :: iwanttogohome ::
The second time he dreams, he knows that he’s dreaming, but what Throne can’t figure out is why. When he thinks, his memories of the past and the ‘Bowl seem very far away --- like voices heard down the hall, having to pass through wall after wall before reaching him.
“This can’t be good,” he mutters to himself and turns, his arms and legs moving sluggishly as if through water. He is surprised to find a lanky figure beside him, both familiar and completely foreign, looking off somewhere into the distance. When Throne looks at him - no, definitely her - the muscles around his eyes involuntarily twitch. It’s as if she’s not entirely in focus, all the details about her twisting and moving, the motion wearing her features down to a blur. But somewhere among the constant shifting and movement, Throne swears, for a moment, he sees blood. He blinks, looking at her with a curious expression, both terrified and fascinated at the same time.
“You,” he says hesitantly, “You alright?”
The figure turns to him, and although her eyes are nothing more than dull smudges on the rearranging landscape of her face, Throne feels that she isn’t looking at him, rather through him and past him as if he weren’t there. Her voice wavers between sadness and delight - rapturous, only not. “I am as alright as you,” she says and her entire body seems to sway. “You and me, we’re in the same boat. Only by the time we wake up, we won’t remember anymore. That’s how these things work.”
Looking down, Throne realizes there is a small glass sphere in the palm of his hand, and inside it, a tiny tree. He raises it between his hands, studying it carefully, when suddenly the tree inside starts to rot, and from its withering corpse come maggots and termites and spiders. “Yes!” the figure beside him declares. “Yes, that’s the spirit, my boy!” Without warning, she claps her hands over his and, pressing down hard, forces the globe to shatter in between his palms. Splinters of glass embed themselves into his skin, but still she pushes until the torn flesh meets, insects trying to wriggle free from between his now touching palms. The pain is bright but only temporary, because when he blinks, the ragged mess of his hands is gone.
Instead, it is only him and the figure, her hands still tight around his own, her face tilted towards him, its features still smeared, when quietly she whispers, “Do this for me.”
Dumbly, he nods, unsure what she means, but he’s touched by the fleeting earnestness of her voice. Her face seems almost sad to him, if such a word could be attributed to a blur. “They’re looking for you,” she then says rather plainly, her voice no longer modulating. “The one with the dark eyes, he’s longing for you. And the others, the ones who have seen fragments of the truth, they suspect you have tumbled down the drain.”
“The truth?” Throne hated the way none of this seemed to make any sense, like he was the butt of some elaborate joke that no one would let him in on. He remembered the Sphere -- that was all fine and good -- but what was with all of this cryptic talk.
“Maybe you will try to find it again. Maybe this time it will find you.” A smile comes into focus across the smudge of her face and, like a mother, she takes his hand, leading him into the distance.
“So, come,” she says, and the smile shows teeth. “Throne. Time to reboot.”