Who: Trent Booker What: Dolls do their worst Where: Booker's dreams When: Nov 13th Ratings: Gore? Status: Narrative
The night had ended normally, walking with Blair back to their trailer, her chatting excitedly and him pretending he wasn't paying attention. The sun would be poking up above the horizon in about an hour so they took their time. He wasn't even thinking of nightmares, or dreams at all. He was tired from the show. Booker could feel his abilities strengthening the longer he was here using them like this and already he had a slightly noticeable difference in stamina. This was the best thing about the whole thing, really. He was growing. It was slow but faster than it would have been on his own, not using them as much as he was here at the cirque. Even Blair seemed to be somewhat happy. He couldn't quite tell, she was the same as always.
After bidding her goodnight, he made his way up the ladder to his bedroom, the curtain being pulled after him. Undressing was quick, his pajama pants already folded up on the corner of his bed from where he had placed them earlier that evening. Everything went on a hanger after he pulled it off and not more than fifteen minutes later, he was settling into his bed, a soft sigh leaving him. The mattress was almost made for him, it was the kind of comfortable you could only get if you had it custom made, or if you had one of those adjustable things.
Sleep usually came easily to him and tonight was no different, the vampire sinking under as soon as he closed his eyes. The only difference was the nightmare that rose to greet him. Even with all this drama with the dolls, Booker hadn't gotten nightmares that had bothered him as much as it seemed to bother others. He'd woken with the bruises just once and had stopped sleeping for a day. It had been silly, he convinced himself, to just not sleep because of these stupid little dolls. Stupid superstition. The bruises left soon enough, fading quickly until they were a forgotten thing on his skin, as if they hadn't been there at all. Odd, though, that they had waited until he woke to start healing.
The first thing he noticed was the sound of laughter, a deep male voice. It was a noise that often haunted him when he wasn't paying attention so at first, he ignored it. Until he felt a wetness on his hands, on his body. Clothes sticking to skin in a way that wouldn't happen with just water. A heavier fluid, then. As soon as he noticed that, the dream opened up, allowing him to see. There he was, his maker, sitting in a chair in the corner. Those eyes still burned the way he remembered them, his face contorted in his ever present delight in making Trent do what he liked. When he had been first made, he felt like the man had all the control, told him when to feed, how much, how deep. He could see the man's lips moving but couldn't hear what he was saying.
There was a tingle over his skin before his eyes closed again and he was sinking his teeth into a woman who was screaming, biting deep enough to make the blood flow thicker than it should have. Booker dug his teeth in again, deepening the bite further, and the screaming became a sob, became nothing. In his arms was a dead woman he had just made sure bled out into his mouth. He wanted more, needed more. Footsteps behind him, lighter than those of his maker, came and the body was ripped from his hands and taken away. Another whimpering woman was put in her place but this time, after tearing her throat open, he opened his eyes before she left.
His stomach dropped when he saw her pale, now lifeless face. It was his oldest sister. Anabelle. Once realizing that, he knew his maker knew. Knew that he realized he had gathered up all his sisters to have their baby boy kill them. He was repulsed but the older vampire held his reigns. "This is who we are, Trent. Monsters." It was the first thing the man had said that Booker could understand and it was the last. In the real world, the man wouldn't have had any real control over him but in this nightmare, the man forced him to rip the remaining three sisters to pieces with his teeth. Blood covered him, the floor, everything in the room. His maker sat in the chair, immaculate, and laughed, ordering him to do worse and worse things as he went on. The order of his sisters was random but it wasn't something he was really paying attention to. He saw each of their faces as they knew he was going to murder them in horrific ways.
Just when he was sobbing and begging for it to stop, there was a sixth girl that was put in front of him, one he hadn't seen before. She looked up at him and it was Blair. Someone he had sworn to protect. She looked straight into his face, fear written all over her own as she realized what he was. Her lips formed words but the dream shattered into nothingness. Just blackness. It was different before, there really was nothing to this. It was his normal dream. He didn't normally dream.
After realization popped up that it was over, he woke with a snarl, sitting up quickly. If he'd been anything human, he would have been panting, nauseous. Throwing himself out of bed, he went to the edge of his loft and down the ladder. He was up and over to Blair's in a moment, the curtain sliding to the side easily. He could hear her breathing, curled up in her bed with fluffy things surrounding her. She was okay. She was alive. He'd return to his bed and watch the day pass through the specially tinted sky light above his bed.