(no subject)
[He hears her voice. It's a bell's toll or a siren's call but a bell was never living and a siren is a myth, so maybe she is both of these things now. Dominick Cobb only ever waxed poetics about love and dreams, two creations that became mutual, or maybe always were.
Anyway, he hears her voice, which isn't quite right for all kinds of reasons.
You're waiting for a train.
Same line. Same thing. Same ghost.
"No, I'm not. I can't do this anymore." His mouth shapes the words but he doesn't know what kind of expression he's wearing. He owes a many-times dead woman more than this; it's his fault she is gone at all and it has been his punishment and his grace since she jumped to encounter her in the dreamscape. Dom doesn't necessarily believe he deserves better than to die by her spectral hand, but their children do deserve better and because they are not old enough to decide at guessing about their mother and their father and the in-between they still love him and there is still time.
If he can get back to them.
He tries to focus on this in the ambiguity of nothingness weighing him down, but Mal remains everywhere to him, even--especially--in the nothing.
A train that will take you far away.
"Mal." Her name. Her keepsake. Her lifeline.
You know where you hope this train will take you, but you can't be--
Whatever the extractor is about to say, whatever tired argument he has on the tip of his invisible conscience ready to deny Mal again gets cut off too cleanly with the sound of a gunshot. He feels it through every inch of him but as though he had his own hand curled around it, as if the corner of his index got tangled in the trigger.
Everything from there is a haze then a blackness and then a wave washing him up onto the beach of a limbo he immediately anchors himself in. The sand crusts and cracks just beyond the water line and he tilts his face sideways to get his mouth out of it, eyes taking in a clear line of sky. It'd be a beautiful day outside of a dream, outside of this potentially eternal recess.
The fact that it's a day he would like to share with James and Philippa has him lying out the wait to clearer consciousness, eventually pulling himself to knees and hands before sitting back on his ankles.]
Anyway, he hears her voice, which isn't quite right for all kinds of reasons.
You're waiting for a train.
Same line. Same thing. Same ghost.
"No, I'm not. I can't do this anymore." His mouth shapes the words but he doesn't know what kind of expression he's wearing. He owes a many-times dead woman more than this; it's his fault she is gone at all and it has been his punishment and his grace since she jumped to encounter her in the dreamscape. Dom doesn't necessarily believe he deserves better than to die by her spectral hand, but their children do deserve better and because they are not old enough to decide at guessing about their mother and their father and the in-between they still love him and there is still time.
If he can get back to them.
He tries to focus on this in the ambiguity of nothingness weighing him down, but Mal remains everywhere to him, even--especially--in the nothing.
A train that will take you far away.
"Mal." Her name. Her keepsake. Her lifeline.
You know where you hope this train will take you, but you can't be--
Whatever the extractor is about to say, whatever tired argument he has on the tip of his invisible conscience ready to deny Mal again gets cut off too cleanly with the sound of a gunshot. He feels it through every inch of him but as though he had his own hand curled around it, as if the corner of his index got tangled in the trigger.
Everything from there is a haze then a blackness and then a wave washing him up onto the beach of a limbo he immediately anchors himself in. The sand crusts and cracks just beyond the water line and he tilts his face sideways to get his mouth out of it, eyes taking in a clear line of sky. It'd be a beautiful day outside of a dream, outside of this potentially eternal recess.
The fact that it's a day he would like to share with James and Philippa has him lying out the wait to clearer consciousness, eventually pulling himself to knees and hands before sitting back on his ankles.]