Fanfiction- The Dream Journal of Lucy Westenra
Title: The Dream Journal of Lucy Westenra
Fandom: Dracula
Prompt: Written for the 6impearfics prompt Lurid. "Shocking, horrific, fierce, savage, sensationalized, luminous and hazy: black currant, Bulgarian lavender and white musk with a dollop of thick resin and a voltaic charge of ozone notes."
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Lucy/Dracula, Lucy/Arthur
Summary: Sickness brings Lucy fever dreams of a man, but they grow worse when she suspects them to be more than dreams.
Warnings: Violence and sexual assault.
September 10
On this night I dreamed there came a man to my bed. Though Jack speaks of new research as to the cause of dreams, I am no fool, to not know what this dream signifies! I long for my wedding day with Arthur, and in some respect for my wedding night as well. Mina will laugh when I show her this journal, but I am sure she will not be able to deny having such dreams of her own!
I remember the cool breeze of night, on which there came his voice. In the way of dreams, I was able to understand him though his words were in an unfamiliar language. He spoke words of love, and I knew it to be Arthur, for who else but my fiancee would be so bold as to claim me before I was a bride? Now that I think, however, his words were flattering but never did he truly declare his love. My dream suitor was no gentleman, it seems!
My eyes closed, I lay down upon the bed and awaited him. His hands touched my eyelids, and though they were chilled as the breeze, it was the most delightful sensation. I met his kiss with eager anticipation, and wondered how it would feel when he took me. (Perhaps I will not share this with Mina after all, for she will be as merciless with her teasing as I would be if she told me such a thing!) It was then that the strangest thing happened, however, for it was my throat that seemed to interest him, and his tongue traced lines across it until I nearly begged for release. My mind was filled with a haze of love, and when I felt him bite down upon me, it did not seem the least bit peculiar.
How unusual is the logic of dreams, for this act of ferocity seemed to please me in the moment. I cried with joy as I felt my energy being drawn away, and fell into a delightful swoon. There was some amount of pain, but it did not seem to matter. All that mattered was that my love held me in his arms and took everything I had to offer, and I only wished I could offer more.
The last thing I recall of my dream is the strangest. I opened my eyes to gaze upon his face, and it was an unfamiliar one. Not Arthur, but also neither Quincey nor Jack. His hair was longer and his lips were fuller, and his eyes seemed to pierce through the haze of my mind and chill me again, this time less pleasurably. I remember nothing else before I awoke.
Had I known the man in the dream, I should undoubtedly feel guilty, even though it was only in my dream that my fidelity was broken. But as he is a mere figment my mind has invented while ill, it is hard to blame myself for indulging in a silly fantasy.
September 13
I must have seen that man before. Why else would he appear in a second dream, after my mind had shaken him off? This time I was waiting for him, somehow knowing he would approach, and feeling some amount of guilt for it. Though I knew myself to be in a dream (for the haze had returned, along with the chill) I was more conscious of events, and unsure of what I should do.
“I cannot permit you in, sir,” I said to him. He laughed, but there was no mirth in his eyes, and I wondered just what sort of man he was.
“You cannot, but you will. Quite a paradox.” His voice was soothing though he mocked me, and it was with reddened cheeks that I opened the door for him. He was correct that I would do so, but I wished that I had not, if only to prove him wrong. I wanted the pleasure he had given me previously, but at what price?
“I should not do this if I did not know it to be a dream. Even as it is, how do you know I will not refuse you?”
He laughed again, and this time his eyes were mirthful as well. I did not like it, for what sort of man is amused by the predicament of a troubled and guilty woman? I whispered a silent plea for Arthur to forgive me even as I undid the fastenings of my nightgown, and stood tall as the man bent his head to my throat. He held me tightly, and it occurred to me that he perhaps wished to prevent my struggle. Why should he do such a thing if he was so assured of my surrender? I did not try to slip my arms from his grasp when his kisses turned to a bite, but I wonder if I could have had I tried.
When I woke, I found my cheeks stained with tears. It must be my strange sickness which brings on these mad dreams, and once I am healed I shall have them no more. It is another thing to look forward to about my health returning, for I do not know if I could stand the guilt of another night.
September 17
He cannot prevent me from recording my dreams. It is habit, and my journal is hidden besides; though I fear to speak, it is comforting to write. He cannot and shall not stop me.
What is he, this fiend who descends upon me in a cloud of nightmare? I think I used to find his face handsome- why else would I have allowed him to feast upon my flesh during my second dream? No. I did not allow it, I merely thought I did. I believed my own mind to be in control, but now I am sure it never has been. He has tricked and consumed my soul, and I will not let myself place the blame anywhere but upon the one responsible.
I believe him to be the cause of my illness, not the result. He may be a plague-carrier, like a flea or a rat (it feels somehow satisfying to think of him in such low terms.) At the very least, he is no mere dream. Knowing this gave me some strength this time, for when I knew him to be at my door, I cursed his name (though I did not know it) and refused to let him near me.
It did not matter. His hands battered down the door (or were they my hands? I felt some confusion in the midst of my fear.) I tried to run from him, but he was upon me before I had taken three steps, and his hand clutched my throat so tightly I could neither scream nor breathe. He would only lessen his grip when I ceased thrashing, and he had pinned me to the floor.
“No,” I cried in hushed tones. “I hate you! If you harm me again, I shall tell my friends and they will murder you. There will be nowhere you might hide to be free of them if you violate me.”
Oh god, I shall never forget the look of contempt upon his face. I truly feared for my life in that moment, but all he did was dig his nails (long and sharp, like those of a cat) across my skin, and the pain of being cut was less than the humiliation as he lapped up the blood that dripped down my bared breast.
“You will tell no one,” he said, “for they will not believe you.”
“Mina will, and the doctor Van Helsing who has come to cure me. Arthur might not understand, but he will do anything to protect me.”
“Then I shall not let you tell them. You shall be so ashamed that you will not speak a word.” For the first time in all my nightmares he parted my legs, and struck me when I wept. “And if you do speak,” he said as he mounted me, “so much the worse for them. Your suitor shall watch as I defile you, and we shall both dine upon his blood. Perhaps I will add your friend to my collection, and you will perform upon each other for my amusement. No, you would wish that, and so shall say nothing.”
He held down my hands but my teeth were free, and I bit at his cheek enough to draw his own blood. That terrible laugh came again, and his blood tasted like the vilest poison.
I awoke in my bed, the night not yet young. No sound would come when I opened my lips, but it was not his doing- it was my own. The monster was right, for I cannot tell a word. They will think me mad or worse, for was it not me who allowed him in when I did not know better?
He cannot prevent me from recording my dreams. I will leave this journal beneath my pillow, and pray Van Helsing reads it. If you are, good doctor, please do not think me a wanton, or if you do, consider me to have been punished enough already for my sins! You know more than you will say, so I beg you to say nothing of what you read to Arthur, or to Jack or Quincey. If I die, do not let them know my last night was one of torment!
I hear my mother at the door- I must stop now, for she may never learn of this! I know I will sleep again tonight, and fear I cannot prevent it. If I never wake, I pray that the sleep of death brings with it no dreams.