Richard Greyson is (agentacrobat) wrote in repose, @ 2016-09-24 18:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, dick greyson |
Dick Greyson - Narrative
Who: Dickie
Where: The Manor
When: Nowish
It didn't happen as often as it used to, the getting caught up in the in between spaces in his mind. Unsure what was real and what wasn't. Unsure what was true and what was the lie. Usually it was moments like this half between sleep and awake, groggy and exhausted both physically and mentally worn out. It would start out simple enough reaching over in bed for a body that wasn't there when he had to remind himself that it was because there wasn't supposed to be anyone there, and then he'd start to question his surroundings, mentally going down his checklist of memories little factoids that he knew were true. It was usually enough to put his mind back at ease.
But on rare occasions he'd begin to question himself, start demanding tangible evidence, things he could touch and see to prove to himself that he was where he promised himself he was, and he was who he said he was. So he'd get up and wander the house, he'd open drawers and cabinets and look at pictures. He'd open the lock box under his bed and touch and hold every item in it and tell himself out loud what every single thing was, and where it came from, who was with him when he'd gotten it.
Tonight as he laid in bed, his mind raced with thoughts from the day at the station, crazed dogs, shot victims, this weird town, the strange woman in the house, Bruce, Damian, Jason, Cat, he took deep breaths that eventually began to slow it was getting late and he had an early day the next morning, he would get some sleep and have a clearer head. Soon, before long his thoughts drifted to other scenes and settings, brains were weird in the way they connected thoughts and images. A memory crept in here could be linked to a thought there, and soon he was remembering the roadside car bomb in Afghanistan, the ambush that followed, he remembered it with such clarity that it was like he was there again. He felt his heart begin to thump in his chest. Certain there was someone hiding under his bed, certain that he wasn't safe any longer.
In the back of his mind, he was screaming at himself to remember that none of it was true. Not just the feelings of fear, but the events he was remembering, they weren't real either. By then he was back to arguing with himself about what was real or not. Checklist forgotten for the time being as he lay there with his eyes closed tightly, unsure of where he was going to open his eyes and find himself. Unsure of where he wanted to open his eyes and find himself, so instead he just kept his eyes closed while he clenched the sheets in his fists.
He was tempted to holler out for someone. But who? Once, a long time ago, he'd hollered out for Damian, he remembered, and the woman (his wife? No. Yes. Maybe?) who had been lying next to him had asked who that was. The other night he'd hollered out for her and had found himself in a room in a strange house (home?) and her name had felt like a language he didn't speak on his tongue. So he kept his lips shut as tightly as his eyes and waited. Sleep wouldn't come, but the morning light would bring all kinds of clarity, that was the last resort. It wasn't a night for roaming the house.