Dream a Little Dream of Me
*headdesk until the discomfort goes away*
Well. A few things to point out before we begin. I don't play TF2, I can't play FPSes, they hurt my brain. But, for unknown reasons- probably of a demonic nature- whenever I have a major examination coming up, I have TF2 dreams. RED wins? I kick the exam's ass. BLU? Hello C or less.
I had a software midterm yesterday. RED won, but due to (I presume) my preoccupation with the upcoming NaNo, RED (and BLU) were horrifying hybridizations of their appropriate personas, and people from Chandra and PC.
Guess who was Medic? Guess what that made Verites?!
How is that relevant to the following? It's not. I just don't have anyone to discuss my mental wtfs with, because I'm worrisomely alone.
==-==-==
She doesn't care for these dreams, but that's alright. People have been subtly accusing her of playing favorites, lately. Never saying anything where she can hear, but somehow forgetting that she can always tell. Always knows what they're thinking. Imbeciles, the lot of them. But skilled idiots, useful enough to keep.
She feels like killing someone today. And she will do it with a smile. There must be someone who is easily replaced. Kind, she is not. But practical? That's alright. She can be practical. Her fingers are itching with want, and if she were a weaker woman, she'd be grinning. But she doesn't, because she isn't. Instead, she is calm, or cold, and her her heels hit the floor with an infuriating little click that makes them flinch. She doesn't mind the noise so much, when they do that. Unimaginable depths of terror, reflected back from their pretty little eyes. She wants to pull them out, one by one, and stare at them. Pop them. Taste them. Watch their little faces contort with horror as she takes away their senses, one by one. Condemns them to a hell beyond her own imagining.
Maybe one of them could
The thought it inappropriate, and she kills it with the ease of practice. The dreams make them more common, those thoughts. Fantasies of rescue, of saving her.
But her little Memory is too far gone, or perhaps Nephthys is too far gone. If someone brought Verites to her now, what would the girl see? Some hollow horror. Because that's what she is. Empty. Flat. Nothing at all but a spectre in heels.
Cell 24. Another one of the Anseridae. Good. No one ever notices when they die. They're easy to replace. Sickly little girls, too light for their size. Anorexics, mostly. The bulimics have too many internal scars. Less pliable. The ones with physical diseases are too hard to repair. But there's an endless supply of self-starved little children, these days.
This one has the unrepentant gall to have pale skin and blue, blue eyes. Big, sunken, scared. Familiar.
It makes her angry, but she doesn't yell. They hide, when she yells. She prefers to let them think, for a moment, that maybe she is a friend. before they realize how wrong they are.
The door swings open, lightly, and the painfully white fluorescents flicker into wakefulness all around her. "Hello, little one. What's your name?" Her voice is sweet, rich, lower. Almost masculine, but more importantly, warm and solid. She reiterates that idea, that warmth and comfort, with a subtle pressure on the girl's mind, bending her will.
The girl smiles, brightly, without reserve, and it is Nephthys who flinches, as if burned.
It isn't the delicate, long lived torture she had been planning, but the bloody mess splattered on the brushed steel walls of the girl's room is endlessly preferable to that smile. For good measure, though, the woman burns the body, until it isn't merely headless, but nothing at all. Ashes and dust.
And she feels sick. Or tired. Or something else, that she can't quite place.
The pink girl is waiting for her, curled on her bed, hair splayed around her like the brightest moss. And she is asleep, her face so young in rest. So kind. Similar.
But Fiye has none of the purity, and all of the youth. Fiye is perfect. Fiye is what she deserves, and needs, and wants, but Fiye isn't Verites, and there the trouble lies.
The girl who was not a girl opened her eyes with a flourish, lashes flickering apart, and smiles. But this isn't like 24's smile. This is beatific, the smile of one who has been saved, and doesn't yet realize that their savior is a demon, come to consume their soul.
"That was quick. Did you enjoy yourself? You look rather like you did."
Oh yes. The blood. It does get everywhere, if she isn't careful.
Fiye offers a hand, beckoning her back to the mattress, to the place of sleep where the wrong dreams rush through her mind.
But, Fiye is small, and light, and soft. She feels right, there beside her, tucked against her hip. She feels almost exactly like Verites. And that is good enough.
It has to be.
But, when the night comes crushing in around her, and her ill begotten son comes to crush her throat, she cannot be surprised. Verites would have stayed. Cried, and wailed, and died for her. And Fiye, who is much stronger and better than Verites, and so wrong, simply disappears.
And its all over then, isn't it. She feels dizzy, from the unbreathing. Her eyes feel swollen, like they might pop. And David is going grey at the edges.
Will the dreams be any better, now that she can't leave them?
Well. A few things to point out before we begin. I don't play TF2, I can't play FPSes, they hurt my brain. But, for unknown reasons- probably of a demonic nature- whenever I have a major examination coming up, I have TF2 dreams. RED wins? I kick the exam's ass. BLU? Hello C or less.
I had a software midterm yesterday. RED won, but due to (I presume) my preoccupation with the upcoming NaNo, RED (and BLU) were horrifying hybridizations of their appropriate personas, and people from Chandra and PC.
Guess who was Medic? Guess what that made Verites?!
How is that relevant to the following? It's not. I just don't have anyone to discuss my mental wtfs with, because I'm worrisomely alone.
==-==-==
She doesn't care for these dreams, but that's alright. People have been subtly accusing her of playing favorites, lately. Never saying anything where she can hear, but somehow forgetting that she can always tell. Always knows what they're thinking. Imbeciles, the lot of them. But skilled idiots, useful enough to keep.
She feels like killing someone today. And she will do it with a smile. There must be someone who is easily replaced. Kind, she is not. But practical? That's alright. She can be practical. Her fingers are itching with want, and if she were a weaker woman, she'd be grinning. But she doesn't, because she isn't. Instead, she is calm, or cold, and her her heels hit the floor with an infuriating little click that makes them flinch. She doesn't mind the noise so much, when they do that. Unimaginable depths of terror, reflected back from their pretty little eyes. She wants to pull them out, one by one, and stare at them. Pop them. Taste them. Watch their little faces contort with horror as she takes away their senses, one by one. Condemns them to a hell beyond her own imagining.
Maybe one of them could
The thought it inappropriate, and she kills it with the ease of practice. The dreams make them more common, those thoughts. Fantasies of rescue, of saving her.
But her little Memory is too far gone, or perhaps Nephthys is too far gone. If someone brought Verites to her now, what would the girl see? Some hollow horror. Because that's what she is. Empty. Flat. Nothing at all but a spectre in heels.
Cell 24. Another one of the Anseridae. Good. No one ever notices when they die. They're easy to replace. Sickly little girls, too light for their size. Anorexics, mostly. The bulimics have too many internal scars. Less pliable. The ones with physical diseases are too hard to repair. But there's an endless supply of self-starved little children, these days.
This one has the unrepentant gall to have pale skin and blue, blue eyes. Big, sunken, scared. Familiar.
It makes her angry, but she doesn't yell. They hide, when she yells. She prefers to let them think, for a moment, that maybe she is a friend. before they realize how wrong they are.
The door swings open, lightly, and the painfully white fluorescents flicker into wakefulness all around her. "Hello, little one. What's your name?" Her voice is sweet, rich, lower. Almost masculine, but more importantly, warm and solid. She reiterates that idea, that warmth and comfort, with a subtle pressure on the girl's mind, bending her will.
The girl smiles, brightly, without reserve, and it is Nephthys who flinches, as if burned.
It isn't the delicate, long lived torture she had been planning, but the bloody mess splattered on the brushed steel walls of the girl's room is endlessly preferable to that smile. For good measure, though, the woman burns the body, until it isn't merely headless, but nothing at all. Ashes and dust.
And she feels sick. Or tired. Or something else, that she can't quite place.
The pink girl is waiting for her, curled on her bed, hair splayed around her like the brightest moss. And she is asleep, her face so young in rest. So kind. Similar.
But Fiye has none of the purity, and all of the youth. Fiye is perfect. Fiye is what she deserves, and needs, and wants, but Fiye isn't Verites, and there the trouble lies.
The girl who was not a girl opened her eyes with a flourish, lashes flickering apart, and smiles. But this isn't like 24's smile. This is beatific, the smile of one who has been saved, and doesn't yet realize that their savior is a demon, come to consume their soul.
"That was quick. Did you enjoy yourself? You look rather like you did."
Oh yes. The blood. It does get everywhere, if she isn't careful.
Fiye offers a hand, beckoning her back to the mattress, to the place of sleep where the wrong dreams rush through her mind.
But, Fiye is small, and light, and soft. She feels right, there beside her, tucked against her hip. She feels almost exactly like Verites. And that is good enough.
It has to be.
But, when the night comes crushing in around her, and her ill begotten son comes to crush her throat, she cannot be surprised. Verites would have stayed. Cried, and wailed, and died for her. And Fiye, who is much stronger and better than Verites, and so wrong, simply disappears.
And its all over then, isn't it. She feels dizzy, from the unbreathing. Her eyes feel swollen, like they might pop. And David is going grey at the edges.
Will the dreams be any better, now that she can't leave them?