[Week 7, Day 1] Dream
It's odd.
She’s sitting in a tall chair, in a dark room lit by floating candles. They look sharp, but it doesn’t bother her, somehow. At least they’re bright.
Something tugs at the side of her head, and Lenalee tries to glance that way to see what it is, but finds herself immobile. She can’t even move her eyes; they’re stuck staring straight ahead. The tugging at her hair continues, but it is not painful. It’s as if someone is playing with it.
“You’re such a Pretty girl,” a voice coos from where the tugging is. A person beside her shifts so that black spikes of hair are briefly within her line of vision, but then it’s gone again. The voice sounds female and childish. What an odd haircut for a young girl to have.
But no, that isn’t right. She is not a Pretty girl. She is…
“An Exorcist is a rare doll.”
Exorcist. That’s right.
There’s something on her legs; it feels too heavy, like a comforter. Or maybe just a long dress, but that’s not what she’s wearing, is she? Her outfit is supposed to have a collar, but then there’s something soft but firm scraping along her neck and she feels very, very vulnerable without it.
“What a waste of a Pretty girl.”
She’s not…
The soft thing travels down to ghost across her chest, and she would have shuddered but nothing is moving. A gray hand flashes in front of her face (and she should have blinked) before the girl moves away. There is a light tap of footsteps behind her. Lenalee’s heart races, apparently the only thing that’s still moving. There is a slight pressure on either side of her shoulders, and something nuzzles against her left ear. A puff of breath against the side of her face. A mouth, then.
“Aren’t you going to be a good Pretty girl?”
Not…
The room changes. No, the room is the same, but it’s bright. The candles are gone and in their place is… everyone. People she barely recognizes from the picnic, but they’re all arranged strangely. No one is standing alone; they all have their arms wrapped around someone’s neck, or torso. And they are all looking at her.
She wants very much to move.
One of the few familiar faces is in front of her. A thin boy with dark curly hair, currently entangled with a pink haired man. He smiles at her, almost sympathetically.
“You’re doing It wrong.”
He tilts his head up, and the pink haired man tilts his head down and they meet halfway. And somehow the absurdity of two boys kissing is the last thing on her mind.
It…?
Everyone is moving now. They are kissing, and touching, and doing other things that she can’t quite see; everyone is… blurry? They are there but not there, and she can’t see it or understand it but she knows it.
You’re doing It wrong.
Other faces start to appear with greater clarity. A man with black hair tied back in a high ponytail, a redhead with an eye patch, a curly haired man with glasses. Frowning. Looking at her.
You’re doing It Wrong.
Someone is missing.
The moving shapes are making her feel queasy, but she can’t throw up because she can’t open her mouth and suffocating on her own vomit is really not the way she wants to die-
“You’d ruin a very nice dress,” the voice from before points out logically.
And someone is missing. She doesn’t want him here, but the absence is chilling. Where is he?
Doing It Wrong.
She needs to move. Anything, even blinking would do. So they can know she’s in here.
It Wrong.
Then they won’t just stare. She has to get up, away from the writhing bodies and the staring comrades and the childish voice. Away from what’s missing.
It.
[Lenalee wakes up shaking. She stares up at the ceiling because there is nothing else to do; she certainly can’t think about what that was. It seems like forever before she drifts back to sleep.]