Post by Eurydice on Jun 17, 2007 10:02:48 GMT -5
((A rare occurance in which I write something which is not primarily centered on my character (although along those lines, I always try to put an inside joke, obscure reference, or invisible double meaning into my writing, and this one definitely has one-- super duper kudos if you can figure it out).
La la la la feeding the nightmare angst beast...
Set on Halloween, the year of the Martian attack.))
It was a rare night, these days, that Will slept without nightmares, and tonight did not vary from the norm. With so much that had happened recently, it was hardly surprising.
It was strange, though, for in the waking world, he had resigned himself to so much of it—the liquid fire pouring down the streets of London, toppling buildings; betrayal in the dark base in Germany, gunfire closing in on all sides; the incident at the museum, and those nameless, faceless victims who had died in the stampede, people he’d never know but whose deaths he had somehow caused; the terror of floating down a boiling river, alone, wondering if the rest of the team were dead; and that alien tentacle reaching out and grabbing him, forcing pictures of the world’s conversion and destruction into his head.
He’d resigned himself to those memories, in the waking world. He’d moved on.
But at night, as he lay on the clean, sturdy floor boards of his room (sleeping in a bed would never feel entirely right, not ever), those pictures danced before his eyes in an unending parade of guilt and terror. And while these trials and tribulations had, in the waking world, all worked themselves out, in one way or another, his dreams always showed him the near-misses and might-have-beens—how he might not have been quite fleet-footed enough to outrun the lava; how he might have killed more, that day at the museum; how he might have kept floating down the boiling river, never hearing Anne’s voice or catching up with the other boat, floating on endlessly until he knew that he would be alone forever.
He wanted to be stronger than this, knew he was stronger than this. Max had talked with him about maybe going off to school. Barker had mentioned the military as a possibility. Everyone had filled him with these potentials for himself that he’d somehow come to believe, and eventually, he knew, he would choose one of these paths, pursue it to the fullest that he could manage, and make something for himself, create his own life, after being granted so many opportunities by others.
Whatever the future, he looked forward to it, wholeheartedly.
But the nightmares did not abate.
It was to be the Martians again, tonight, with hot, stinking breath and iron-hard grip as the one held him fast and invaded his mind. As soon as their touch withdrew, he was running back to base to tell them, let everyone know that the Martians knew their plans already and were going to lure them into a trap. It was vital that he told them this, he knew, vital that he make them understand.
Yet no one was listening. Barker was brushing him off, paying him no mind, and Anne was polishing off a bottle of gin, and Mr. Howe was occupied with his son, and Jo was off sorting out more important things, and Elizabeth was with Max, working on something very difficult, and they couldn’t be bothered. Will could hear himself screaming and shouting and no one else heard. He had to make them hear, had to make them listen.
But he knew, with that certainty one has in dreams, that now it was too late, because a moment later, there was quaking in the ground and a red eye framed in the window. Red heat filled his vision, and then white, and then there were flames leaping up the walls, merciless and all-consuming. Shrieks of pain and the crackle of burning timber rent the air.
There was a weapon cache downstairs, he knew, and he knew he had to get to it. He had to get past the smoke and black dust in the air, had to get there now, because if he didn’t, no one else would. Had to, had to, had to.
And of course, he didn’t. Of course, the falling ceiling and shattered walls and glowing embers stopped him short, because this wasn’t the waking world, where you planned things, and you did them, and they happened. This was a dream, and in dreams you’re allowed to fail for no reason at all, and there’s nothing you can do to help, and all you can do is watch the world burn around you and hear your friends screaming for help when you can’t help them.
Will drifted in dreamless haze for a moment—minute? Hour?—before blinking his eyes open to find them swimming with hot tears. The recognition of those tears, however, lasted for only an infinitesimal fraction of a second, vastly overshadowed by the realization that in his small bedroom, he was not alone.
Twisting his head up, he saw Jo sitting cross-legged beside him. Half of his tear-stained face, he realized with a flush of humiliation, was pressed against her leg, and she was resting a cool, cautious hand on his tousled, matted hair, like the father whose voice he’d never heard, like the mother whose gentle embrace he’d never felt.
“Heard you crying,” she said, her soft, low voice calm and unreadable, almost conversational.
Will nodded, brushing at his eyes. “It’s nothing.”
He could feel her eyes watching him, reading past anything he said. As usual.
Shutting his eyes, he anchored himself on the thought of her cool, pale fingers brushing against his hair and the clean gray cut of her pants leg brushing against his face (and the knowledge that Jo took care of them, all of them, always) before turning away from the waking world once more and surrendering himself to the black curtain surrounding his vision.
What else he dreamt that night, he did not remember.
La la la la feeding the nightmare angst beast...
Set on Halloween, the year of the Martian attack.))
October 31, 1876
It was a rare night, these days, that Will slept without nightmares, and tonight did not vary from the norm. With so much that had happened recently, it was hardly surprising.
It was strange, though, for in the waking world, he had resigned himself to so much of it—the liquid fire pouring down the streets of London, toppling buildings; betrayal in the dark base in Germany, gunfire closing in on all sides; the incident at the museum, and those nameless, faceless victims who had died in the stampede, people he’d never know but whose deaths he had somehow caused; the terror of floating down a boiling river, alone, wondering if the rest of the team were dead; and that alien tentacle reaching out and grabbing him, forcing pictures of the world’s conversion and destruction into his head.
He’d resigned himself to those memories, in the waking world. He’d moved on.
But at night, as he lay on the clean, sturdy floor boards of his room (sleeping in a bed would never feel entirely right, not ever), those pictures danced before his eyes in an unending parade of guilt and terror. And while these trials and tribulations had, in the waking world, all worked themselves out, in one way or another, his dreams always showed him the near-misses and might-have-beens—how he might not have been quite fleet-footed enough to outrun the lava; how he might have killed more, that day at the museum; how he might have kept floating down the boiling river, never hearing Anne’s voice or catching up with the other boat, floating on endlessly until he knew that he would be alone forever.
He wanted to be stronger than this, knew he was stronger than this. Max had talked with him about maybe going off to school. Barker had mentioned the military as a possibility. Everyone had filled him with these potentials for himself that he’d somehow come to believe, and eventually, he knew, he would choose one of these paths, pursue it to the fullest that he could manage, and make something for himself, create his own life, after being granted so many opportunities by others.
Whatever the future, he looked forward to it, wholeheartedly.
But the nightmares did not abate.
It was to be the Martians again, tonight, with hot, stinking breath and iron-hard grip as the one held him fast and invaded his mind. As soon as their touch withdrew, he was running back to base to tell them, let everyone know that the Martians knew their plans already and were going to lure them into a trap. It was vital that he told them this, he knew, vital that he make them understand.
Yet no one was listening. Barker was brushing him off, paying him no mind, and Anne was polishing off a bottle of gin, and Mr. Howe was occupied with his son, and Jo was off sorting out more important things, and Elizabeth was with Max, working on something very difficult, and they couldn’t be bothered. Will could hear himself screaming and shouting and no one else heard. He had to make them hear, had to make them listen.
But he knew, with that certainty one has in dreams, that now it was too late, because a moment later, there was quaking in the ground and a red eye framed in the window. Red heat filled his vision, and then white, and then there were flames leaping up the walls, merciless and all-consuming. Shrieks of pain and the crackle of burning timber rent the air.
There was a weapon cache downstairs, he knew, and he knew he had to get to it. He had to get past the smoke and black dust in the air, had to get there now, because if he didn’t, no one else would. Had to, had to, had to.
And of course, he didn’t. Of course, the falling ceiling and shattered walls and glowing embers stopped him short, because this wasn’t the waking world, where you planned things, and you did them, and they happened. This was a dream, and in dreams you’re allowed to fail for no reason at all, and there’s nothing you can do to help, and all you can do is watch the world burn around you and hear your friends screaming for help when you can’t help them.
Will drifted in dreamless haze for a moment—minute? Hour?—before blinking his eyes open to find them swimming with hot tears. The recognition of those tears, however, lasted for only an infinitesimal fraction of a second, vastly overshadowed by the realization that in his small bedroom, he was not alone.
Twisting his head up, he saw Jo sitting cross-legged beside him. Half of his tear-stained face, he realized with a flush of humiliation, was pressed against her leg, and she was resting a cool, cautious hand on his tousled, matted hair, like the father whose voice he’d never heard, like the mother whose gentle embrace he’d never felt.
“Heard you crying,” she said, her soft, low voice calm and unreadable, almost conversational.
Will nodded, brushing at his eyes. “It’s nothing.”
He could feel her eyes watching him, reading past anything he said. As usual.
Shutting his eyes, he anchored himself on the thought of her cool, pale fingers brushing against his hair and the clean gray cut of her pants leg brushing against his face (and the knowledge that Jo took care of them, all of them, always) before turning away from the waking world once more and surrendering himself to the black curtain surrounding his vision.
What else he dreamt that night, he did not remember.