x (loud) wrote in repose, @ 2018-09-20 19:42:00 |
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Noah's dreams were often fragmentary; a thousand broken mirrors glued back into one Frankensteinian looking glass. A chaotic composite of the tangled desires and knotted thoughts of those slumbering (fitfully) around him. He didn't always remember them—which was probably for the best, dude, let's be real—especially, if their genesis wasn't in the lattice of his own mind. They didn't wash over him like waves, the foreign-born dreams. He wasn't a visitor or an outsider relegated to the sidelines. When they came to him, they were echoes and scraps, and they took shape in his mind and became his, in a super disconcerting, not-at-all-restful way. Suddenly, his dream molded, warped into this hideous refracting reflection, and took on complexities his brain hadn't offered. It didn't happen every night. But, it did happen some nights, especially if he wasn't, like, drugged well enough beforehand, and because he'd been staying up so late with Holly—whose emotions/thoughts/etc. he couldn't drown out if he tried—he hadn't been drugging himself at all, really. Tonight was an amalgamation night. A Frankenstein night. Noah was never necessarily cognizant of it as it was happening. Only after the fact, and only then, sometimes. Dream logic, you know? You accepted the form your reality took because it was your reality. You might question it—is this a dream? Is this a simulation? Am I me? Am I me, if there's a me somewhere else, making different choices?—but it was still your reality, and you couldn't change that. So, when the scene came into being, it was as if it had always been. High school. It wasn't the same building that existed as Noah actually knew it (and worked in every day), but that's what it was. A twisting maze of a place, with brick walls that ran facetless and endless. As of this exact moment in time, Noah was trying to find the locker room. He had a game. There was a gnawing, nagging sense of urgency hurrying him along. But, with that, was the ugly twin feeling of dread—of knowledge that the game, whatever it was, was going to be bad, and he didn't want to get there any faster than he had to. Introduced into this scene was a girl, small and crying and with her hands over her face. Terror tended to run deep in the Frankenstein dreams. Terror at the unknown, at the invasion, even if the invasion was assimilated to. Who was the girl? Why was she crying? Noah didn't feel he could stop to find out. He rushed on. |