Drabble +: Frances Worthington III's Nightmare
Prompt: Frances Worthington III's Nightmare
Character: Frances J. Worthington III, Beau Broke
Wordcount: 512
Imagecount: 0
Warnings: none
My writing usually reflects the overall mood I'm in, which I'm sure is common enough among people who write. It's been quite a difficult week here, but we're getting through it. As a result, I'm bringing you a fight between our happy couple who haven't even made it past the "honeymoon phase" in the story yet. It's set at some point in the future. I'm not sure exactly how far into the future, but you'll get the general idea as you read it.
Sometimes you have a dream that refuses to leave you. You carry it into the day, unable to shake the feeling that it really happened. It ruins your mood.
Today was one of those days.
"You should tell me," he said, as cheerful as always, and then continued to go on and on and on about how his mother had always told him his nightmares wouldn’t come true if he shared them with someone before he ate breakfast. Frankly, I think it’s all nonsense, but I tried to humour him.
I always try to humour him. It can be difficult. I didn’t want to entertain this whim, because I knew it would end badly.
"It's nothing," I said. "I'm fine."
I knew he knew I wasn't fine, but I also knew he knew better than to press on. The whole conversation happened in a glance, without a word. I like that. It’s very efficient.
He made a point of placing a cup of coffee in my hands and being extra pleasant about it. I knew I was being unbearable. I always know.
Still, I couldn't tell him. It was about him, you see.
I was angry at him. I was worrying about him and trying to help him, to get his attention, but I couldn't. He wasn't even trying to help me, and I was there to do something for him. It was for his own good. I was struggling and he couldn’t even make an effort. I was so angry.
The details are fuzzy. He was sitting on a chair at the end of a dark corridor, facing the wall. I kept walking and walking and running towards it, but I couldn’t get any closer. I was shouting out to him but he wouldn’t even turn around.
I was so angry.
It was just nonsense, I'm sure. It doesn’t even make any sense. It was mostly just that feeling of helplessness, and him not even trying to help me. It was more about the emotions. Dreams are like that.
Eventually, he gave up on me and left the room, but he did it cheerfully. He didn't show his irritation. He always does that. He thinks he's so much better than me. He's not a sulky little bitch like I am, and he makes a point of throwing it in my face. Like it's any better to float around in a cloud of delusion, pretending you shit rainbows.
I didn't say anything. I knew I'd just try to start a fight. I knew he’d avoid it. I'd want to say something really horrible to him in an effort to get a reaction and he'd probably just take it. I'd end up feeling awful.
It wasn't worth it.
Then, as he walked by, I wanted to reach out and touch him. I wanted to hold him and tell him I loved him. Tell him I was sorry.
But it was just like the dream. My hand went out, but he was a couple of steps out of my reach.
He didn't turn around.
Character: Frances J. Worthington III, Beau Broke
Wordcount: 512
Imagecount: 0
Warnings: none
My writing usually reflects the overall mood I'm in, which I'm sure is common enough among people who write. It's been quite a difficult week here, but we're getting through it. As a result, I'm bringing you a fight between our happy couple who haven't even made it past the "honeymoon phase" in the story yet. It's set at some point in the future. I'm not sure exactly how far into the future, but you'll get the general idea as you read it.
Sometimes you have a dream that refuses to leave you. You carry it into the day, unable to shake the feeling that it really happened. It ruins your mood.
Today was one of those days.
"You should tell me," he said, as cheerful as always, and then continued to go on and on and on about how his mother had always told him his nightmares wouldn’t come true if he shared them with someone before he ate breakfast. Frankly, I think it’s all nonsense, but I tried to humour him.
I always try to humour him. It can be difficult. I didn’t want to entertain this whim, because I knew it would end badly.
"It's nothing," I said. "I'm fine."
I knew he knew I wasn't fine, but I also knew he knew better than to press on. The whole conversation happened in a glance, without a word. I like that. It’s very efficient.
He made a point of placing a cup of coffee in my hands and being extra pleasant about it. I knew I was being unbearable. I always know.
Still, I couldn't tell him. It was about him, you see.
I was angry at him. I was worrying about him and trying to help him, to get his attention, but I couldn't. He wasn't even trying to help me, and I was there to do something for him. It was for his own good. I was struggling and he couldn’t even make an effort. I was so angry.
The details are fuzzy. He was sitting on a chair at the end of a dark corridor, facing the wall. I kept walking and walking and running towards it, but I couldn’t get any closer. I was shouting out to him but he wouldn’t even turn around.
I was so angry.
It was just nonsense, I'm sure. It doesn’t even make any sense. It was mostly just that feeling of helplessness, and him not even trying to help me. It was more about the emotions. Dreams are like that.
Eventually, he gave up on me and left the room, but he did it cheerfully. He didn't show his irritation. He always does that. He thinks he's so much better than me. He's not a sulky little bitch like I am, and he makes a point of throwing it in my face. Like it's any better to float around in a cloud of delusion, pretending you shit rainbows.
I didn't say anything. I knew I'd just try to start a fight. I knew he’d avoid it. I'd want to say something really horrible to him in an effort to get a reaction and he'd probably just take it. I'd end up feeling awful.
It wasn't worth it.
Then, as he walked by, I wanted to reach out and touch him. I wanted to hold him and tell him I loved him. Tell him I was sorry.
But it was just like the dream. My hand went out, but he was a couple of steps out of my reach.
He didn't turn around.