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Humped Day (Narrative)
(Set ambiguously during the month he's been here.)
It was at least once a week. Mostly it was an inconvenient occurrence remedied by turning over in bed with a groan and pulling up the covers, but occasionally it was like it was now, thrashing, breathless, and terrifying. Waking up in a cold sweat, paralyzed.
These weren't wet dreams, folks. Not near as satisfying. Not at all, in fact. And it always started the same way...
He was flying the Serenity. There was a sense of urgency and he knew where he was. He knew he was flying to protect the crew. To get the signal out. And in the back of his dream addled mind he knew what was going to happen.
His hands were bundled around the steering, knuckles protruding with the pressure that required them all to keep from dying.
And even while he was saying what he knew he was supposed to be saying, and everyone else was saying what they were supposed to be saying, and he knew what moves he was supposed to be making as the ship hurtled further into the moon's atmosphere it never consoled his fears as he narrowly dodged things that would bring them all to imminent destruction.
He knew the ending of this scene, though. He always did. But he never deviated the script. He was a leaf on the wind.
The slam of Serenity bashing into something at the side was next. Then the shudder of her engines and the stillness he could feel behind him, the tense coiled fear. No, he couldn't deviate. There was no other way.
"Watch how I soar." Alarms going off in staccato echoed from his right ear and then his left ear. They beat like an arrhythmia. Serenity was having a heart attack.
His body alternated from hot to cold and he'd never felt adrenaline like he had rush through his body in waves. God, he was good. He was going to do it, too. He was going to land them. He saw it, now. Such blind optimism. Such bravado.
With a shuddering skid across Serenity's hull the ship startled to a shaking halt.
Mal's voice broke through the rushing in Wash's ears.
Wash breathed once. He didn't have to say it. Maybe if he didn't it wouldn't happen. He breathed twice and looked up at Mal. The captain's face had faded from dream to dream until it was like it was now, a dark shadow silhouette. No features. But he knew the face even if he couldn't see it. Couldn't search it out. You rarely forget the last thing you see.
The rest of the crew, in this eternal moment, were all the same amorphous beings as the captain. They stood behind him like black shadows. Even though he couldn't see him, he knew that's what they were. Slowly Zoe had become the same.
"I'm a leaf on the wind," he said softly. He had never looked forward in any of his dreams even though he knew what was coming. He was a chicken that way. "Watch how I--"
People have never underestimated the pain of being impaled through the heart. Mostly because those impaled have never lived to share the memory of it. Nothing can describe the electricity shooting bolts of pain in every nerve of the body. There was no word, no image, no sensation to conjure to be an example of it. Not even close.
Then came the brain's desperateness to comprehend and fight against the immediate shut down of motor abilities as last thoughts were met with pitch darkness. Seconds into hours of not breathing, not blinking, not hearing, and not feeling. And when it was this vivid, when the nightmare hit him with this much raw sensory perception...
He always awoke with his hands gripping the sheets and not being able to move. Literally, he was not able to move for a good minute while trying to grasp for breath, eyes still closed but brain awake.
When his eyes did open his body always shivered no matter the hotness of the room. And he would always look over to his right in the bed that was too big for him. Finding nothing there, he would turn on his side until the shaking subsided. He wouldn't sleep for the rest of the night but lay there until morning, no matter the time.
When morning came he calmly opened the window of his apartment from high in the tower and took in enough air through his nose into his lungs to yell, "TA MA DE!"
The City should take great offense.
It was at least once a week. Mostly it was an inconvenient occurrence remedied by turning over in bed with a groan and pulling up the covers, but occasionally it was like it was now, thrashing, breathless, and terrifying. Waking up in a cold sweat, paralyzed.
These weren't wet dreams, folks. Not near as satisfying. Not at all, in fact. And it always started the same way...
He was flying the Serenity. There was a sense of urgency and he knew where he was. He knew he was flying to protect the crew. To get the signal out. And in the back of his dream addled mind he knew what was going to happen.
His hands were bundled around the steering, knuckles protruding with the pressure that required them all to keep from dying.
And even while he was saying what he knew he was supposed to be saying, and everyone else was saying what they were supposed to be saying, and he knew what moves he was supposed to be making as the ship hurtled further into the moon's atmosphere it never consoled his fears as he narrowly dodged things that would bring them all to imminent destruction.
He knew the ending of this scene, though. He always did. But he never deviated the script. He was a leaf on the wind.
The slam of Serenity bashing into something at the side was next. Then the shudder of her engines and the stillness he could feel behind him, the tense coiled fear. No, he couldn't deviate. There was no other way.
"Watch how I soar." Alarms going off in staccato echoed from his right ear and then his left ear. They beat like an arrhythmia. Serenity was having a heart attack.
His body alternated from hot to cold and he'd never felt adrenaline like he had rush through his body in waves. God, he was good. He was going to do it, too. He was going to land them. He saw it, now. Such blind optimism. Such bravado.
With a shuddering skid across Serenity's hull the ship startled to a shaking halt.
Mal's voice broke through the rushing in Wash's ears.
Wash breathed once. He didn't have to say it. Maybe if he didn't it wouldn't happen. He breathed twice and looked up at Mal. The captain's face had faded from dream to dream until it was like it was now, a dark shadow silhouette. No features. But he knew the face even if he couldn't see it. Couldn't search it out. You rarely forget the last thing you see.
The rest of the crew, in this eternal moment, were all the same amorphous beings as the captain. They stood behind him like black shadows. Even though he couldn't see him, he knew that's what they were. Slowly Zoe had become the same.
"I'm a leaf on the wind," he said softly. He had never looked forward in any of his dreams even though he knew what was coming. He was a chicken that way. "Watch how I--"
People have never underestimated the pain of being impaled through the heart. Mostly because those impaled have never lived to share the memory of it. Nothing can describe the electricity shooting bolts of pain in every nerve of the body. There was no word, no image, no sensation to conjure to be an example of it. Not even close.
Then came the brain's desperateness to comprehend and fight against the immediate shut down of motor abilities as last thoughts were met with pitch darkness. Seconds into hours of not breathing, not blinking, not hearing, and not feeling. And when it was this vivid, when the nightmare hit him with this much raw sensory perception...
He always awoke with his hands gripping the sheets and not being able to move. Literally, he was not able to move for a good minute while trying to grasp for breath, eyes still closed but brain awake.
When his eyes did open his body always shivered no matter the hotness of the room. And he would always look over to his right in the bed that was too big for him. Finding nothing there, he would turn on his side until the shaking subsided. He wouldn't sleep for the rest of the night but lay there until morning, no matter the time.
When morning came he calmly opened the window of his apartment from high in the tower and took in enough air through his nose into his lungs to yell, "TA MA DE!"
The City should take great offense.