daemonmuses
This is written as a companion piece to this Absolutely Brilliant Piece by leftthefather. Used without permission, but when inspiration strikes man...
Medical Jargon aside, he's not the sort of man to put any stock in nightmares. As Dickens said, nightmares could very well be a bit of badly digested beef or sour cheese.
Something easily manipulated.
He never pays much attention.
(Enjoy. GeneCo's. Day. And. Nighttime. Formula. Of. Zydrate.)
Why should he? He has everything that he ever wanted. A beautiful wife, a child on the way and a job for the first time in his life that he doesn't have to feel sick about.
Nature failed as technology spread
He doesn't wake up in a cold sweat, Casia yowling silently at his feet. He would like to scream, but he doesn't want to wake his wife.
And in the dark he watches her sleep, eyes closed gently. She never had to fight for unconciousness-too pure for this world. An entire city, built on top of the DEAD!
In his dream he's being chased, stalked by something that he never sees.
It happens every night that she's ill. He stays with her every instance that he can, the baby screaming in her crib. He's afraid to touch her-the slightest exposure could kill-
Heart pounding, eyes wide, there is a root Gravestone at his feet tripping him head over heels.
Her. She coughs and there's blood, she breathes and there's blood-and the look of hope in her eyes just kills him because he's tried everything and he can't-
It's taller then he is, wild and daemon-less. It's a demon with bright blue eyes that shine like stars and he isn't afraid.
He can't anymore. It's killing him. He knows. Dammit, he's a doctor. He knows that he can't-and isn't that the burden of the twenty first century? Isn't that the curse? That people shouldn't suffer? That he'd done his very best to prevent it?
All that man is,
All mere complexities-
Are you sure that she's the sick one Nathan?
She is sick, he is sicker. She is weak, he is weaker. She is dying, he is dead- one of the dead of a city build on the foundations of ruin called Byzantium. The fury and Mire of human veins, our cross to bear-we care too much.
And in the dream the figure removes his helmet and kneels at the prone figure in contempt "You know what you have to do."
He puts no stock in dreams, they can be too easily manipulated. Humans are mistrustful creatures of nightmares and he knows what he has to do--
In the end.
He knows death to the bone --
Man has created death.
-Yeats
Medical Jargon aside, he's not the sort of man to put any stock in nightmares. As Dickens said, nightmares could very well be a bit of badly digested beef or sour cheese.
Something easily manipulated.
He never pays much attention.
(Enjoy. GeneCo's. Day. And. Nighttime. Formula. Of. Zydrate.)
Why should he? He has everything that he ever wanted. A beautiful wife, a child on the way and a job for the first time in his life that he doesn't have to feel sick about.
Nature failed as technology spread
He doesn't wake up in a cold sweat, Casia yowling silently at his feet. He would like to scream, but he doesn't want to wake his wife.
And in the dark he watches her sleep, eyes closed gently. She never had to fight for unconciousness-too pure for this world. An entire city, built on top of the DEAD!
In his dream he's being chased, stalked by something that he never sees.
It happens every night that she's ill. He stays with her every instance that he can, the baby screaming in her crib. He's afraid to touch her-the slightest exposure could kill-
Heart pounding, eyes wide, there is a root Gravestone at his feet tripping him head over heels.
Her. She coughs and there's blood, she breathes and there's blood-and the look of hope in her eyes just kills him because he's tried everything and he can't-
It's taller then he is, wild and daemon-less. It's a demon with bright blue eyes that shine like stars and he isn't afraid.
He can't anymore. It's killing him. He knows. Dammit, he's a doctor. He knows that he can't-and isn't that the burden of the twenty first century? Isn't that the curse? That people shouldn't suffer? That he'd done his very best to prevent it?
All that man is,
All mere complexities-
Are you sure that she's the sick one Nathan?
She is sick, he is sicker. She is weak, he is weaker. She is dying, he is dead- one of the dead of a city build on the foundations of ruin called Byzantium. The fury and Mire of human veins, our cross to bear-we care too much.
And in the dream the figure removes his helmet and kneels at the prone figure in contempt "You know what you have to do."
He puts no stock in dreams, they can be too easily manipulated. Humans are mistrustful creatures of nightmares and he knows what he has to do--
In the end.
He knows death to the bone --
Man has created death.
-Yeats