TM Challenge: Last Night's Dream
He doesn't dream a great deal. Not anymore. He did, when he was a child - lots and lots, over and over. When he was very young, they were the dreams of innocence. Of adventure. Of all the wonderful worlds beyond the walls of home, the classroom window. Then his parents died, and suddenly, all the dreams were different. He dreamt of fire and smoke and ash, and shadowed figures in the dark, and woke up every morning swearing he'd find them.
But even that faded. Everything does, eventually. Especially when you never see past yourself, to say nothing of walls or windows. It's a good shield. A nigh-on perfect shield. Strong enough to hold back anything.
Until it cracks.
And now... he's started dreaming again. He doesn't know why. Or, he doesn't admit why.
He's had the same dream for the last three nights in a row. Well. He thinks it's the same dream, though he still has the feeling that something about it is different each time. Something more than the end.
The premise is the same. It's night, and he's walking - alone - along one of the streets in central Midtown. It's the sort of place that would never be truly empty, no matter the time of day or night, but in his dreams, it always is. He walks along it, counting his own footsteps as if measuring out distance, or time.
Twenty-two. He always rounds the corner up ahead at twenty-two. Just before he does, he sees the same piece of graffiti on the cold brick wall, sprayed in red - the name of his fifth-grade science teacher, and two numbers: 13 and 47 - and on the ground, beside it... a packet of what look to be cheese slices. Which always causes great confusion.
When he walks beyond this, he can see what lies ahead - for the buildings either side open out, and he's staring across a broad river. He knows it, of course. It's the river flowing through the middle of the city - and though in reality it is usually quiet, in his dreams, it thunders like a torrent. As he walks closer to it, he can see that the water is white with spray, as though he were looking into a mountain rapid, not a city waterway.
Then, he looks up at the bridge. It's the most famous bridge in Midtown - the Memorial Bridge. But not the Superheroes' Memorial Bridge... oh no... that came later. That came... after.
He knows where he is, now. Or, more precisely, he knows when.
Every time... it is as if that realisation is the trigger. As if everything was safe before he knew.
The moment he realises, he sees the car. Their car. He sees it and knows what it means and he tries to run after it, shouting their names, but all the strength in him is gone, and he can't move. He can only watch.
The car drives up onto the bridge. Out to the middle. And then a huge explosion cuts the air, a vast burst of flame and debris, swirling and spiralling into the night.
And time stops.
Only then can he move, walking forward as if stepping into a photograph, pacing footstep after footstep up onto the bridge, even though he can see the twisted metal above, even though he knows it won't hold out forever.
It's... impossible. Ethereal. Slowly, slowly, his mind begins to reject it. He cannot be here. Time never stops. No matter how hard he tries, he can't make it. Can't make it stop, can't make it reverse. But in this... moment, or un-moment... or whatever it is... it does. And he knows it can't.
But before his mind rejects it utterly; before the dream fades and he wakes up - alone or not - with a sudden shout of shock... before time reasserts itself, he sees a figure step through the shadows, moving through the un-time... just like him.
The figure is the only part of the dream that changes. The first night, it's Bad Horse, accompanied by his chorus of cowboys - though, thankfully, they never sing. The second night, it's Penny, her red-gold hair glittering in the glow of the frozen explosion. And the third night - last night - it's Billy. Not Dr Horrible. Billy.
Though whoever it is, they always say the same thing - be it the chorus of cowboys speaking in a strange monotoned unison, Penny whispering with her hand held out... or Billy, looking at him in a strange kind of... something he's not quite sure of. Hope? Regret? Guilt? He doesn't know.
The words they say are short and simple, and they stay with him throughout the following day and into the night... perhaps, he thinks, explaining why the dream keeps coming back.
"Just who do you think you are?"
And he wakes up, jolting awake in the darkness, those words in Billy's voice still echoing in his head. But this time... and only this time... instead of just lying back down, he whispers an answer. He whispers an honest answer.
"...I don't know."
But that's OK. Because he realises, he may not, but each of them, in their own way... they know. They do.
Or did.
And for the rest of the night, sleep evades him.
But even that faded. Everything does, eventually. Especially when you never see past yourself, to say nothing of walls or windows. It's a good shield. A nigh-on perfect shield. Strong enough to hold back anything.
Until it cracks.
And now... he's started dreaming again. He doesn't know why. Or, he doesn't admit why.
He's had the same dream for the last three nights in a row. Well. He thinks it's the same dream, though he still has the feeling that something about it is different each time. Something more than the end.
The premise is the same. It's night, and he's walking - alone - along one of the streets in central Midtown. It's the sort of place that would never be truly empty, no matter the time of day or night, but in his dreams, it always is. He walks along it, counting his own footsteps as if measuring out distance, or time.
Twenty-two. He always rounds the corner up ahead at twenty-two. Just before he does, he sees the same piece of graffiti on the cold brick wall, sprayed in red - the name of his fifth-grade science teacher, and two numbers: 13 and 47 - and on the ground, beside it... a packet of what look to be cheese slices. Which always causes great confusion.
When he walks beyond this, he can see what lies ahead - for the buildings either side open out, and he's staring across a broad river. He knows it, of course. It's the river flowing through the middle of the city - and though in reality it is usually quiet, in his dreams, it thunders like a torrent. As he walks closer to it, he can see that the water is white with spray, as though he were looking into a mountain rapid, not a city waterway.
Then, he looks up at the bridge. It's the most famous bridge in Midtown - the Memorial Bridge. But not the Superheroes' Memorial Bridge... oh no... that came later. That came... after.
He knows where he is, now. Or, more precisely, he knows when.
Every time... it is as if that realisation is the trigger. As if everything was safe before he knew.
The moment he realises, he sees the car. Their car. He sees it and knows what it means and he tries to run after it, shouting their names, but all the strength in him is gone, and he can't move. He can only watch.
The car drives up onto the bridge. Out to the middle. And then a huge explosion cuts the air, a vast burst of flame and debris, swirling and spiralling into the night.
And time stops.
Only then can he move, walking forward as if stepping into a photograph, pacing footstep after footstep up onto the bridge, even though he can see the twisted metal above, even though he knows it won't hold out forever.
It's... impossible. Ethereal. Slowly, slowly, his mind begins to reject it. He cannot be here. Time never stops. No matter how hard he tries, he can't make it. Can't make it stop, can't make it reverse. But in this... moment, or un-moment... or whatever it is... it does. And he knows it can't.
But before his mind rejects it utterly; before the dream fades and he wakes up - alone or not - with a sudden shout of shock... before time reasserts itself, he sees a figure step through the shadows, moving through the un-time... just like him.
The figure is the only part of the dream that changes. The first night, it's Bad Horse, accompanied by his chorus of cowboys - though, thankfully, they never sing. The second night, it's Penny, her red-gold hair glittering in the glow of the frozen explosion. And the third night - last night - it's Billy. Not Dr Horrible. Billy.
Though whoever it is, they always say the same thing - be it the chorus of cowboys speaking in a strange monotoned unison, Penny whispering with her hand held out... or Billy, looking at him in a strange kind of... something he's not quite sure of. Hope? Regret? Guilt? He doesn't know.
The words they say are short and simple, and they stay with him throughout the following day and into the night... perhaps, he thinks, explaining why the dream keeps coming back.
"Just who do you think you are?"
And he wakes up, jolting awake in the darkness, those words in Billy's voice still echoing in his head. But this time... and only this time... instead of just lying back down, he whispers an answer. He whispers an honest answer.
"...I don't know."
But that's OK. Because he realises, he may not, but each of them, in their own way... they know. They do.
Or did.
And for the rest of the night, sleep evades him.