Dylan Hayes (pushme) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-07-05 02:09:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | dylan hayes, morpheus |
Who: Dylan Hayes and Morpheus
What: Dylan has a bad dream, Morpheus doesn't help
When: Saturday night
Where: Dylan's subconscious
He had found somewhere safe to sleep that night, that wasn't the problem. He was warm, the rain had stopped coming down so hard, lately, and the temperature was such that he didn't need to find anywhere to huddle, his sweatshirt was sufficient. With his backpack nestled in the small of his back, pressed against a grungy brick wall, his mind filled with the promise of a meeting the next day, he felt almost comfortable as he began to doze off for the night. Then the fireworks started. The first bang jarred him out of his half-sleep immediately. His heart raced, he paled in the blackness of his chosen alley, he clenched his teeth hard enough to cause his jaw to hurt like fire, his head pounded. It lasted - well, it only lasted a few minutes, but to Dylan and his mind, it felt like years, ages. The blood rushed out of his knuckles from his tightly clenched fists, he felt lightheaded, but at the same time, he could not escape. It was sensory overload, each progressive explosion caused a little more fear, a little more panic. His eyes clouded over, he wanted to die, explode along with the fireworks in the sky - not that he knew they were fireworks. He was paralyzed, his brain began to concoct a new reality, one far away from New York City, in an entirely different jungle, a place with other people just as scared as him, and a place where the explosions came from automatic weapons in the rain, guns held by shadowy figures. When the fireworks ended, Dylan's paralysis ended, and he collapsed forward, covered with sweat, exhausted from the strain. If he could have chosen, he would not have slept, but he didn't have any money for coffee, and he was too tired to keep himself from sleep.
The jungle returned when he closed his eyes. He tasted mud on his tongue, he heard flies and mosquitoes carrying all kinds of unseemly diseases buzzing around his ears, landing on his cheeks, his lips, his eyes. He wanted to brush them away but both of his hands were on his gun as he stalked through the marshland in a small cluster of soldiers. Vietnam was a country of his nightmares, when he saw pictures of it on the computer, it never looked like what his mind created, but at the same time, he knew where he was. Someone barked an order, he moved into position behind a tangle of greenery and brambles that cut through his uniform, scraping at his knees. He pushed a new magazine into his gun and waited for another order as his eyes danced across a foreboding landscape that wobbled, changed, and where red bled into the green.