Dream ✍ 003
Warnings: Heavily implicated death. Spoilers for Les Misérables... If, you know, people are concerned with spoilers for 19th century lit.
Dream Effect: [OPTIONAL] Those who choose to feel it will get slammed in the face with a fluctuation of emotions as written. If you opt in for sensation, as well, stick to what's written - there will be a simulated sense of urgency, simulated asphyxiation. At the end of the dream, the viewer will be released from feeling. NO ONE WILL ACTUALLY PASS OUT OR DIE FROM VIEWING THIS DREAM JUST FYI.
He hardly smoked in his life but just then he felt the urge to strike a match to a pipe. It was quarter 'til one, dead of night. He was writing furiously, the pen squeaking with strain and stress across a stamped sheet of white paper. Firstly, secondly, thirdly. All observations he had noted during his time with the Parisian police service, addressed primly to Monsieur le Prefet Gisquet, his bureaucratic desk jockey of a superior. Observations that cut costs, improved sanitation, reduced injustice. Conversations with his captives, desperate pleas from convicts, the congested cough of an ill prisoner, he heard and remembered well certain unsavory snippets of prison conditions and with cold clarity noted them in a simple black journal when no one else thought to glance his way.
He was invisible unless it was his intention to be known. Tonight he was invisible, just another lowly government servant directing a collection of astute concerns t o t o p a d m i n i stra t i o n--
The guardhouse implodes. The streets are emptied with Revolution. He walks, halts at the crest of the bridge, an irrepressible insufferable humming following him, driving him mad. It plucks holes through his ear, it tears at his whiskers. He is a coward. His hopes that this place would erase the noise have failed. He longs for simplicity again, for the chains in his pockets to wrap round two old wrists. The back hunches over, fingers entangle deep in his hair. The pressure does not relieve it.
Justice is good. Justice is absolute. Crime is reprehensible. Crime is a flinch in the face of a regret. Crime isn't good. Wrongdoing isn't good. But what of good that was once a wrongdoing?
The deafening snarl sharply snaps.
A resolution is made.
--Hyperventilation, panic. There is only mud and filth and water and hair fanning about, violent disturbance from the single figure with the gall to writhe, to disturb the natural order of a river at rest. The lungs burst, convulsing and pumping with the futile need for mortal life--
80 francs. He draws two heavy coins from his change-purse amidst a persistent humming sound at his middle ear and tosses it into upturned palms. He knows the carriage driver is greedy, knows that 80 francs could buy a new overcoat, knows he may have used those 80 francs to buy a month's worth of meals, rent, and premium dry-roasted snuff. The convict doesn't notice anything out of place. He is wealthy and old and far too concerned with his own not-imminent arrest. Money has lost meaning to him over the years. The carriage is sent away.
He is not alone. Rage, frustration, a palpitating horrifying clench of anxiety grasped him by the ear drum. He couldn't hear his own footsteps over the hum.
--He fights it. It is only natural. Reflexes force the body to move, waste the little oxygen left to propel one to the surface. The currents pull him deeper. It tastes of sewage. He thrashes--
Sixthly, Ninthly. The tip of his pen snapped off. It interrupted his process. He stared blankly at the shattered nub, a glare between his brows. The pen was mocking him. Delaying the inevitable, prolonging his not-duty. Inconceivably something more than duty. Moral responsibility, payment of debt? The sergeant posted at the door brought him a second pen and tossed the first in a wastebasket before resuming his work.
He takes off his hat. It's well-worn but still very expensive. It is a waste to ruin it. May as well spare it from damage. The hat is left absently on the parapet. Staring at it makes him cross-eyed. He clambers over the rail. The after-buzz fades.
--The water roars, the throat constricts. A suckling, slurping, burbling beast laps his ear--
He expels a puff of steam from his lungs. No breath to hold, little breath to lengthen survival, that's what he thinks. Not even the frothy waters make a sound. The lights dim, all that's left is the putrid smell of raw sewage from the river, a moonbeam hitting the cobblestone on the bridge slightly left-of-center. He dangles from the parapet, testing the breeze, his gaze locked downwards. It is a sound decision. The logic is there. He understands its implications, though he can't anticipate what comes after. One of the few things he can't.
His grip loosens. He plummets forward and disappears into the murk.
Silence.
--Delirium. It is painful; that is suitable and just. Satisfying. The river calms.
Tenthly.
He signed it, not a misplaced comma nor a smudge of ink in sight. It was one o'clock, dead of night. He methodically stood, left the sealed letter on the desk for the Prefect to collect and exited into the cool empty street. The bridge was only a short walk away.
Dream Effect: [OPTIONAL] Those who choose to feel it will get slammed in the face with a fluctuation of emotions as written. If you opt in for sensation, as well, stick to what's written - there will be a simulated sense of urgency, simulated asphyxiation. At the end of the dream, the viewer will be released from feeling. NO ONE WILL ACTUALLY PASS OUT OR DIE FROM VIEWING THIS DREAM JUST FYI.
He hardly smoked in his life but just then he felt the urge to strike a match to a pipe. It was quarter 'til one, dead of night. He was writing furiously, the pen squeaking with strain and stress across a stamped sheet of white paper. Firstly, secondly, thirdly. All observations he had noted during his time with the Parisian police service, addressed primly to Monsieur le Prefet Gisquet, his bureaucratic desk jockey of a superior. Observations that cut costs, improved sanitation, reduced injustice. Conversations with his captives, desperate pleas from convicts, the congested cough of an ill prisoner, he heard and remembered well certain unsavory snippets of prison conditions and with cold clarity noted them in a simple black journal when no one else thought to glance his way.
He was invisible unless it was his intention to be known. Tonight he was invisible, just another lowly government servant directing a collection of astute concerns t o t o p a d m i n i stra t i o n--
The guardhouse implodes. The streets are emptied with Revolution. He walks, halts at the crest of the bridge, an irrepressible insufferable humming following him, driving him mad. It plucks holes through his ear, it tears at his whiskers. He is a coward. His hopes that this place would erase the noise have failed. He longs for simplicity again, for the chains in his pockets to wrap round two old wrists. The back hunches over, fingers entangle deep in his hair. The pressure does not relieve it.
Justice is good. Justice is absolute. Crime is reprehensible. Crime is a flinch in the face of a regret. Crime isn't good. Wrongdoing isn't good. But what of good that was once a wrongdoing?
The deafening snarl sharply snaps.
A resolution is made.
--Hyperventilation, panic. There is only mud and filth and water and hair fanning about, violent disturbance from the single figure with the gall to writhe, to disturb the natural order of a river at rest. The lungs burst, convulsing and pumping with the futile need for mortal life--
80 francs. He draws two heavy coins from his change-purse amidst a persistent humming sound at his middle ear and tosses it into upturned palms. He knows the carriage driver is greedy, knows that 80 francs could buy a new overcoat, knows he may have used those 80 francs to buy a month's worth of meals, rent, and premium dry-roasted snuff. The convict doesn't notice anything out of place. He is wealthy and old and far too concerned with his own not-imminent arrest. Money has lost meaning to him over the years. The carriage is sent away.
He is not alone. Rage, frustration, a palpitating horrifying clench of anxiety grasped him by the ear drum. He couldn't hear his own footsteps over the hum.
--He fights it. It is only natural. Reflexes force the body to move, waste the little oxygen left to propel one to the surface. The currents pull him deeper. It tastes of sewage. He thrashes--
Sixthly, Ninthly. The tip of his pen snapped off. It interrupted his process. He stared blankly at the shattered nub, a glare between his brows. The pen was mocking him. Delaying the inevitable, prolonging his not-duty. Inconceivably something more than duty. Moral responsibility, payment of debt? The sergeant posted at the door brought him a second pen and tossed the first in a wastebasket before resuming his work.
He takes off his hat. It's well-worn but still very expensive. It is a waste to ruin it. May as well spare it from damage. The hat is left absently on the parapet. Staring at it makes him cross-eyed. He clambers over the rail. The after-buzz fades.
--The water roars, the throat constricts. A suckling, slurping, burbling beast laps his ear--
He expels a puff of steam from his lungs. No breath to hold, little breath to lengthen survival, that's what he thinks. Not even the frothy waters make a sound. The lights dim, all that's left is the putrid smell of raw sewage from the river, a moonbeam hitting the cobblestone on the bridge slightly left-of-center. He dangles from the parapet, testing the breeze, his gaze locked downwards. It is a sound decision. The logic is there. He understands its implications, though he can't anticipate what comes after. One of the few things he can't.
His grip loosens. He plummets forward and disappears into the murk.
Silence.
--Delirium. It is painful; that is suitable and just. Satisfying. The river calms.
Tenthly.
He signed it, not a misplaced comma nor a smudge of ink in sight. It was one o'clock, dead of night. He methodically stood, left the sealed letter on the desk for the Prefect to collect and exited into the cool empty street. The bridge was only a short walk away.