Sweet dreams are made of this
Every night the dreams start the same way, chains and hooks and that last desperate moment of hope, back when he still thought there might be a way out.
They get better after that -- blood and knives and terror and a vicious, unholy joy laid out over it all.
The nausea and panic that follows is a comfort. He has enough presence of mind left to hope that it is always a comfort, a reminder of the humanity that he sometimes still feels he lost.
Then he gets up, downs most of a bottle of Cuervo, and passes out. It's better than sleep, because it makes the dreams hazier, shot through with completely nonsensical moments. Because really, outside of Hollywood movies, who in their right mind plays card games in Hell?
Only it isn't Hell. It's --
Milliways?
What the everloving fuck.
Even another fifth of tequila isn't going to help him out with this one.
Shit.
They get better after that -- blood and knives and terror and a vicious, unholy joy laid out over it all.
The nausea and panic that follows is a comfort. He has enough presence of mind left to hope that it is always a comfort, a reminder of the humanity that he sometimes still feels he lost.
Then he gets up, downs most of a bottle of Cuervo, and passes out. It's better than sleep, because it makes the dreams hazier, shot through with completely nonsensical moments. Because really, outside of Hollywood movies, who in their right mind plays card games in Hell?
Only it isn't Hell. It's --
Milliways?
What the everloving fuck.
Even another fifth of tequila isn't going to help him out with this one.
Shit.