trigger_man (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
trigger_man) wrote2010-11-06 02:02 am
trigger_man) wrote2010-11-06 02:02 am
Conversations With Dead People
When Jack closes his eyes, he’s surrounded by the familiar environs of his room in Milliways, curled in his bed as a few rays of moonlight slant through chinks in the blinds.
When he opens them, it’s to a room which is nearly as dim, just as familiar, but nowhere near as comfortable. Concrete walls, blue lighting embedded in the walls, a one-way mirror dominating one wall.
It’s a room he’s seen so many times in his dreams--his nightmares--but this feels so much more real than it ever has before. The walls close in, the air feels oppressive, like a weight on his chest.
The dreams never go anywhere good from here.
When he opens them, it’s to a room which is nearly as dim, just as familiar, but nowhere near as comfortable. Concrete walls, blue lighting embedded in the walls, a one-way mirror dominating one wall.
It’s a room he’s seen so many times in his dreams--his nightmares--but this feels so much more real than it ever has before. The walls close in, the air feels oppressive, like a weight on his chest.
The dreams never go anywhere good from here.
no subject
With a small nod, she forces herself not to reach for him again.
Turning, she takes one step.
Another.
And another, toward the light.
no subject
this is the Audrey you need to remember, not the one that wouldn’t look you in the eye and that shrank from your touch, not the one unconscious and hooked up to an IV, remember the one she could be again
--before she disappears.
Without a single glance around him, he grabs the doorknob and steps through the doorway into the light, closing his eyes against the brightness as he pulls the door firmly shut behind him.
When he opens his eyes again; darkness surrounds him, and it takes him a moment to realize where he is: his room, his bed, in Milliways. His surroundings now feel as real as the ones he’d just left, but somehow he knows this isn’t some extension of the dream. There’s no one around, no sound other than the distant low hum of life somewhere nearby, and his cheeks are wet with tears.
He has to get out.
He’s not sure just what prompts the sudden urge to leave. Not wanting to stay in a place that can do those kinds of things to his dreams. A need for space that goes on forever and that he knows doesn’t loop back on itself. Maybe he just wants to get away from the people that know him well enough to ask what’s wrong because he’s certain he won’t be able to hide the deep, hollow pain in his chest and he doesn’t want to talk about this, not now. Whatever it is, he needs out, this minute, and he’s spent so long listening to his instincts that he’s out of bed and getting dressed in an instant, without really even thinking about it.
He’d walked in with the clothes on his back and his wallet in his pocket; that’s all he needs to take with him. In less than five minutes, he’s on his way downstairs, where he slips out the door and back to his world, unnoticed.