my salad days: dreaming of screaming
No! Stop it! LET GO OF ME!
She hates the dreams. She hates them. She can handle anything life wants to throw at her, but this is different. She can't fight this with fists or guns or biotics. She can't escape the dreams any more than she can escape her past, no matter how hard she tries. She can't stand the feeling of being the weak and powerless again. She vowed never to feel so helpless ever again, but when sleep takes her at last she has no power over what comes next.
Why are you doing this to me? WHAT DID I DO WRONG?
She can see herself there, strapped to the operating table. A little girl, no older than seven or eight. Scrawny, head shaved, terrified and sobbing. A moment passes, a blink of an eye, and she's on the table herself. Her body has been paralyzed from the next down, her arms and legs strapped down for extra measure. She can feel cold metal pressing against her skull, keeping her still, but her eyes continue darting around the room. She watches the men and women walking around her, terrifying instruments in their hands. Needles and scalpels and saws and syringes and all manner of strange electronics, all destined for her. She knows what's coming, but it never gets any easier.
Please, I'll do anything! Stop it, please! You're hurting me!
She screams, but they ignore her. That's something she never understood: why not put her to sleep when they cut her open? Why leave her body motionless, her head numb, but still let her yell and plead and scream? She could only assume they liked it, that they do it to punish her, to make her hurt. Why else would they make her feel it every time they went inside her?
Oh god no, please no, not again. Please, don't cut me open again. PLEASE! PLEASE!!
She knows why they cut her. She knows the thing in her brain, the thing that lets her do those things with her mind, is what they're in there for. They tell her little, but she knows anyways. It's all they care about. It's all they're ever testing her on, and she knows it's why they cut her open so much. But nobody will tell her why they need to, and nobody will tell her why she was chosen and not any of the children she sees from her cell's only window. All she knows is that when they come for her, masks on, clubs in hand, she's going to be cut again. She doesn't want to be cut again, never again, but they always do. All her life, it's all they've done, and nobody will tell her what she's done to deserve this.
No! No! NOPLEASENOSTOP!
She tries to think of some way to escape, some way to stop them. She tries to use her powers, to kill them or stop them or hurt them, but nothing happens. Her mind races for answers, for something to stop them from cutting her open again, but nothing comes to her. The only answer is simple: she is powerless, and she is going to be cut open. Then they start cutting, and her racing mind is blissfully silenced. She can't hear her own panicked thoughts any more.
Only screaming.
Why me?
And then Jack wakes up.
She hates the dreams. She hates them. She can handle anything life wants to throw at her, but this is different. She can't fight this with fists or guns or biotics. She can't escape the dreams any more than she can escape her past, no matter how hard she tries. She can't stand the feeling of being the weak and powerless again. She vowed never to feel so helpless ever again, but when sleep takes her at last she has no power over what comes next.
Why are you doing this to me? WHAT DID I DO WRONG?
She can see herself there, strapped to the operating table. A little girl, no older than seven or eight. Scrawny, head shaved, terrified and sobbing. A moment passes, a blink of an eye, and she's on the table herself. Her body has been paralyzed from the next down, her arms and legs strapped down for extra measure. She can feel cold metal pressing against her skull, keeping her still, but her eyes continue darting around the room. She watches the men and women walking around her, terrifying instruments in their hands. Needles and scalpels and saws and syringes and all manner of strange electronics, all destined for her. She knows what's coming, but it never gets any easier.
Please, I'll do anything! Stop it, please! You're hurting me!
She screams, but they ignore her. That's something she never understood: why not put her to sleep when they cut her open? Why leave her body motionless, her head numb, but still let her yell and plead and scream? She could only assume they liked it, that they do it to punish her, to make her hurt. Why else would they make her feel it every time they went inside her?
Oh god no, please no, not again. Please, don't cut me open again. PLEASE! PLEASE!!
She knows why they cut her. She knows the thing in her brain, the thing that lets her do those things with her mind, is what they're in there for. They tell her little, but she knows anyways. It's all they care about. It's all they're ever testing her on, and she knows it's why they cut her open so much. But nobody will tell her why they need to, and nobody will tell her why she was chosen and not any of the children she sees from her cell's only window. All she knows is that when they come for her, masks on, clubs in hand, she's going to be cut again. She doesn't want to be cut again, never again, but they always do. All her life, it's all they've done, and nobody will tell her what she's done to deserve this.
No! No! NOPLEASENOSTOP!
She tries to think of some way to escape, some way to stop them. She tries to use her powers, to kill them or stop them or hurt them, but nothing happens. Her mind races for answers, for something to stop them from cutting her open again, but nothing comes to her. The only answer is simple: she is powerless, and she is going to be cut open. Then they start cutting, and her racing mind is blissfully silenced. She can't hear her own panicked thoughts any more.
Only screaming.
Why me?
And then Jack wakes up.