dreams
Her nights are often spent in darkness-- she rarely dreams, she rarely moves. She does not normally talk, or snore, and her mind usually remains blank. More recently, however, she's found some trouble. It's as if her body can't decide what it wants-- she's exhausted when she lays down, but restless an hour later, tossing and turning. She groans, frustrated, but eventually she does manage to sleep.
And she dreams.
She dreams of buildings, losing herself in city lights, phantom hands touching her body and the odd feeling of not caring. She dreams of her dog, Hachi, running after a ball, or her canary's singing in the morning, of the sound of her parents laughing together as they wrap gifts when they think their children are asleep. She dreams of happiness.
Then she dreams of heat, of fire-- it sears her skin, cooks her from the outside, until she wakes up in a panic and sweating, but it never hurts. She dreams of pain-- but not hers. Never hers. She sees children, broken, mutilated, crying out for help, and she's always a finger-length too far away to help. There's always a barrier. There's always bars. She dreams of silver, of a blinding light reflected into her eyes-- staring down a barrel, the strike of aqua at the end, the cruel smile as the finger pulled the trigger. She moved, too late.
She always wakes up, shaking, nauseous. She wonders, sometimes, what she's done to deserve dreams like this now.
---
request me bb /o/
And she dreams.
She dreams of buildings, losing herself in city lights, phantom hands touching her body and the odd feeling of not caring. She dreams of her dog, Hachi, running after a ball, or her canary's singing in the morning, of the sound of her parents laughing together as they wrap gifts when they think their children are asleep. She dreams of happiness.
Then she dreams of heat, of fire-- it sears her skin, cooks her from the outside, until she wakes up in a panic and sweating, but it never hurts. She dreams of pain-- but not hers. Never hers. She sees children, broken, mutilated, crying out for help, and she's always a finger-length too far away to help. There's always a barrier. There's always bars. She dreams of silver, of a blinding light reflected into her eyes-- staring down a barrel, the strike of aqua at the end, the cruel smile as the finger pulled the trigger. She moved, too late.
She always wakes up, shaking, nauseous. She wonders, sometimes, what she's done to deserve dreams like this now.
---
request me bb /o/