Waking Nightmares
WHO: Raivis, Ivan, and Gilbert
WHEN: November 11, Afternoon
WHERE: Ivan's Psychiatry Office
WHAT: When Ivan sleeps, he's in his worst nightmare; when Gilbert wakes, he's in his worst nightmare.
He could feel their eyes on him. Even know when the conscious woke, the unconscious slept. He knew that camera with the bright red eye was watching him and Rory, yet the unconscious found it easier to sleep. He sneaked half a day's dosage of anti-sleeping pills between evening sips of coffee, listened to Alfred try to explain his character in some upcoming play, and fought off the urge to sleep as he stared into his bowl of borscht on the table. He couldn't eat it; beets were too close to the color of blood. The ruby-maroon juice bubbled and beaded between pores when Ivan's knife cut into its skin. The romaine leaves like veins blurred the cutting board red as Ivan dropped the greenery into the nearby trash. The juice clung to his fingers like a stain, he'd nearly dropped the knife onto his foot, but some sort of madness compelled him to keep dicing, drop the beets into the pot, see the beef stock turn deep red, slow-cook the meat in the stew... that smell of flesh, not rotten, but...
...in the end, Ivan washed his culinary work down the drain. Nothing but coffee... coffee and bleni. Until the game was over. Until Rory and Ivan killed the others. Or until Gilbert killed them.
Or until Ivan killed Gilbert.
"Raivis, this is Mr. Hawkins's file. Please file it accordingly. I wrote him up a prescription for Ritalin, so be sure to fill out the necessary paperwork. He's given a ninety day supply." He tapped the appropriate lines for Raivis to follow, not glancing up at the clock, not keeping track of how many minutes there were until his newest addition to client names arrived.
Not thinking about Gilbert.
Not thinking about killing him.
WHEN: November 11, Afternoon
WHERE: Ivan's Psychiatry Office
WHAT: When Ivan sleeps, he's in his worst nightmare; when Gilbert wakes, he's in his worst nightmare.
He could feel their eyes on him. Even know when the conscious woke, the unconscious slept. He knew that camera with the bright red eye was watching him and Rory, yet the unconscious found it easier to sleep. He sneaked half a day's dosage of anti-sleeping pills between evening sips of coffee, listened to Alfred try to explain his character in some upcoming play, and fought off the urge to sleep as he stared into his bowl of borscht on the table. He couldn't eat it; beets were too close to the color of blood. The ruby-maroon juice bubbled and beaded between pores when Ivan's knife cut into its skin. The romaine leaves like veins blurred the cutting board red as Ivan dropped the greenery into the nearby trash. The juice clung to his fingers like a stain, he'd nearly dropped the knife onto his foot, but some sort of madness compelled him to keep dicing, drop the beets into the pot, see the beef stock turn deep red, slow-cook the meat in the stew... that smell of flesh, not rotten, but...
...in the end, Ivan washed his culinary work down the drain. Nothing but coffee... coffee and bleni. Until the game was over. Until Rory and Ivan killed the others. Or until Gilbert killed them.
Or until Ivan killed Gilbert.
"Raivis, this is Mr. Hawkins's file. Please file it accordingly. I wrote him up a prescription for Ritalin, so be sure to fill out the necessary paperwork. He's given a ninety day supply." He tapped the appropriate lines for Raivis to follow, not glancing up at the clock, not keeping track of how many minutes there were until his newest addition to client names arrived.
Not thinking about Gilbert.
Not thinking about killing him.