Jono's Room, The Apartment Above Groovy Tunes, Stupid-Early Sunday Morning
So far, the night had been... it had been heavy, and while Jono and Hannibal had done a fair bit of talking, Jono had wound up asking for more time to think on things, to wrap his head around what he'd been told and to come up with the right questions and the nerve to ask them. And there were some big ones, too. Why Karla had encouraged Hannibal to not tell Jono, for one. It wasn't as though Jono didn't have plenty of close friends who wouldn't hesitate to put down people like those, after all.
What had happened to the parts that weren't accounted for, for another.
Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was denial. Hell, maybe it was just some vain desire to have one mostly normal night of just being curled up against him, pretending everything was okay in spite of the marching-ants feeling that something was amiss even beyond what was going on right there in his room. Whatever the case was, they had fallen asleep on Jonothon's bed, some manner of classical music playing that Jono had really only been half paying attention to in the first place.
And it was very nearly a comfortable sleep, too. Jono wasn't going to announce it for the world to hear or anything, but there was something about being held while he slept that was just... safe. It was a pity his head wasn't telling him the same thing. In his dreams, there were the faces, always the same faces, of people that he'd killed, of concentration camp prisoners who he often dreamed of, always pleading him for mercy, which were almost as bad as the ones who weren't. The ones who weren't were the ones who had already been broken, after all.
And in his dream, Jonothon was a snake, a great hungry serpent who crept after them in the dark of night, his face gaunt and made of flame. They didn't see him coming, not really, not until it was too late and he'd already moved in to strike. And once he'd bitten them, those poor bastards who hadn't even had a chance this time around to beg for their lives, they were his. They would dance for him if he asked, so that the snake became the charmer, and they would paint themselves across the walls and create something so beautiful out of the suffering that even he, the artist, had difficulty looking away. And Jonothon, the snake, would devour whatever was left, so that they'd burn, burn, burn as he gorged himself on those faces that haunted him, and never once did they ask him why, tonight. Never once did they dare question why they were the prey. A man he once knew, a woman who was taking the place of her children, an elderly man, a young boy--
Jono shot awake in a cold sweat, sitting up with wide eyes and no small amount of distress rippling off of him in waves.
And then he buried his face in his hands and tried to scrub the remnants of the nightmare from his mind completely.
[OOC: For that guy! That Jono woke up from a nightmare is okay to broadcast, everything else NFB. Warnings for discussion of Murder, Child Abuse, and, yes, Cannibalism in the comments.]
What had happened to the parts that weren't accounted for, for another.
Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was denial. Hell, maybe it was just some vain desire to have one mostly normal night of just being curled up against him, pretending everything was okay in spite of the marching-ants feeling that something was amiss even beyond what was going on right there in his room. Whatever the case was, they had fallen asleep on Jonothon's bed, some manner of classical music playing that Jono had really only been half paying attention to in the first place.
And it was very nearly a comfortable sleep, too. Jono wasn't going to announce it for the world to hear or anything, but there was something about being held while he slept that was just... safe. It was a pity his head wasn't telling him the same thing. In his dreams, there were the faces, always the same faces, of people that he'd killed, of concentration camp prisoners who he often dreamed of, always pleading him for mercy, which were almost as bad as the ones who weren't. The ones who weren't were the ones who had already been broken, after all.
And in his dream, Jonothon was a snake, a great hungry serpent who crept after them in the dark of night, his face gaunt and made of flame. They didn't see him coming, not really, not until it was too late and he'd already moved in to strike. And once he'd bitten them, those poor bastards who hadn't even had a chance this time around to beg for their lives, they were his. They would dance for him if he asked, so that the snake became the charmer, and they would paint themselves across the walls and create something so beautiful out of the suffering that even he, the artist, had difficulty looking away. And Jonothon, the snake, would devour whatever was left, so that they'd burn, burn, burn as he gorged himself on those faces that haunted him, and never once did they ask him why, tonight. Never once did they dare question why they were the prey. A man he once knew, a woman who was taking the place of her children, an elderly man, a young boy--
Jono shot awake in a cold sweat, sitting up with wide eyes and no small amount of distress rippling off of him in waves.
And then he buried his face in his hands and tried to scrub the remnants of the nightmare from his mind completely.
[OOC: For that guy! That Jono woke up from a nightmare is okay to broadcast, everything else NFB. Warnings for discussion of Murder, Child Abuse, and, yes, Cannibalism in the comments.]