muses_gonewild: "The Stone"--Ashes Divide
I pretend and pray it all away
searching for a place to hide
But I don't need to pretend memories to fade
I just wanna feel something real inside
It's always worse in his dreams. It always hurts more. It feels like the bones in his wrists are snapping. His hips feel like they're being crushed. His heart is beating so hard, he's sure it must be trying to escape from his chest.
It always feels worse, because it feels like he was forced into it. Scott's domineering form isn't in the slightest bit sexy, instead a mass of anger and spite.
Sometimes there's a gun pointed at his head, digging into his forehead, a nice round hole like the barrel is trying to burrow its way in.
And a Hail Mary's on his lips, silent words mouthed, fumbling over them, meaning nothing, because it hurts too much, and he doesn't know what else to do but pray.
Scott always pulls the trigger at the end of those dreams. He always pulls the trigger, and Billy always wakes up in a cold sweat. He swears he can feel it, the jerk of the gun against his head, the bullet driving in, the hot, sick splatter of the back of his skull exploding.
He always feels ridiculous when he wakes up, once his breathing is even, once he's certain of his surroundings once more, because he said yes, and it was just the one time he got so rough, and really, it was fine, what choice did he have?
Maybe that was the problem. Choice. Do or die. Do and die.
It feels like hard and inescapable violation in his dreams, but the word for that doesn't sit well with him because, he thinks, it wasn't that bad, no, not at all, not nearly as painful as his dreams make it out to be, and he said yes. There was no force involved--except the force enacted on his physical being.
No guns. There weren't any guns; he doesn't know why he dreams of guns, except he does. Like he knows the reason why his prayers mean nothing and his voiceless words mean nothing and he wakes up when he dies instead of ends up somewhere.
He rationalizes that it's merely two recent, painful memories, nightmare scenarios, blending together into something that makes no sense, making things out to be worse than anything ever really was. He laughs; why does he need to rationalize a dream at all? But he does anyway. Something about it makes sense. No solace in sex, no righteousness in religion. He's a little abnormal like that, he thinks. Neither vice nor virtue meaning much of anything.
And sometimes he's okay with the fact that the end is so violent and brutal. Every time he has it, he just can't wait for the end, the ending where his brain meets the mattress. He's not sure if that means something or if that's normal. Everyone wants a nightmare to end. Quickly.
He always pulls the trigger.
searching for a place to hide
But I don't need to pretend memories to fade
I just wanna feel something real inside
It's always worse in his dreams. It always hurts more. It feels like the bones in his wrists are snapping. His hips feel like they're being crushed. His heart is beating so hard, he's sure it must be trying to escape from his chest.
It always feels worse, because it feels like he was forced into it. Scott's domineering form isn't in the slightest bit sexy, instead a mass of anger and spite.
Sometimes there's a gun pointed at his head, digging into his forehead, a nice round hole like the barrel is trying to burrow its way in.
And a Hail Mary's on his lips, silent words mouthed, fumbling over them, meaning nothing, because it hurts too much, and he doesn't know what else to do but pray.
Scott always pulls the trigger at the end of those dreams. He always pulls the trigger, and Billy always wakes up in a cold sweat. He swears he can feel it, the jerk of the gun against his head, the bullet driving in, the hot, sick splatter of the back of his skull exploding.
He always feels ridiculous when he wakes up, once his breathing is even, once he's certain of his surroundings once more, because he said yes, and it was just the one time he got so rough, and really, it was fine, what choice did he have?
Maybe that was the problem. Choice. Do or die. Do and die.
It feels like hard and inescapable violation in his dreams, but the word for that doesn't sit well with him because, he thinks, it wasn't that bad, no, not at all, not nearly as painful as his dreams make it out to be, and he said yes. There was no force involved--except the force enacted on his physical being.
No guns. There weren't any guns; he doesn't know why he dreams of guns, except he does. Like he knows the reason why his prayers mean nothing and his voiceless words mean nothing and he wakes up when he dies instead of ends up somewhere.
He rationalizes that it's merely two recent, painful memories, nightmare scenarios, blending together into something that makes no sense, making things out to be worse than anything ever really was. He laughs; why does he need to rationalize a dream at all? But he does anyway. Something about it makes sense. No solace in sex, no righteousness in religion. He's a little abnormal like that, he thinks. Neither vice nor virtue meaning much of anything.
And sometimes he's okay with the fact that the end is so violent and brutal. Every time he has it, he just can't wait for the end, the ending where his brain meets the mattress. He's not sure if that means something or if that's normal. Everyone wants a nightmare to end. Quickly.
He always pulls the trigger.