Rewrite the role you play / For Prodigalsavior
His sleep had been broken and troubled. This time it wasn't disturbed by erotic images and sensations. His gasps weren't the result of pleasure, and his sheets were soaked in sweat when he woke for an entirely different reason.
His dreams weren't dreams; they were nightmares. The images blood soaked, the impressions of death and darkness and hunger. He never did more than half wake in the darkness, before falling back into them. When morning finally came and he did wake, with a pounding head and uneasy stomach, he was more exhausted than before he'd fallen asleep.
He dragged himself into the shower to scrub the sweat off his skin and to try to wash away the lingering cobwebs in his mind. He tried very hard not to over analyze, and to convince himself that they had nothing to do with the supposedly banished darker half of himself. He told himself they were too alien, too fantastical for that.
He had managed to push them aside, in favor of trying to figure out what to do about food and clothes by the time Damon showed up again, but he hadn't quite managed to convince himself.
His dreams weren't dreams; they were nightmares. The images blood soaked, the impressions of death and darkness and hunger. He never did more than half wake in the darkness, before falling back into them. When morning finally came and he did wake, with a pounding head and uneasy stomach, he was more exhausted than before he'd fallen asleep.
He dragged himself into the shower to scrub the sweat off his skin and to try to wash away the lingering cobwebs in his mind. He tried very hard not to over analyze, and to convince himself that they had nothing to do with the supposedly banished darker half of himself. He told himself they were too alien, too fantastical for that.
He had managed to push them aside, in favor of trying to figure out what to do about food and clothes by the time Damon showed up again, but he hadn't quite managed to convince himself.