Re: Dreaming: Billy & Eames
The frown sharpened its lines on Billy’s features, digging in deeper around his mouth and in the crease between his eyebrows. This wasn’t right. He glanced at the wall opposite the door that had closed behind the new arrival, where suddenly there was a clock that he hadn’t noticed before. It ticked erratically while Billy watched, two notches forward, then three back. “What the hell is your problem?” He snapped, turning back as he heard the ticking stutter behind him. “I’m trying to help you.”
He tugged harder on the thread and the entire thing unravelled, opening like a zipper to fall away from Billy’s arm and reveal a red, angry spot in the ditch of his elbow. He remembered, then. “No, I — I did this to myself.” He lifted his arm higher and straightened it out, and his brow furrowed in more lines because he remembered. He had picked at one of the scabs, over and over until it turned swollen and hot to the touch, crusting over with a yellowing discharge, and then his water had started to taste astringent like pine. “I just don’t… remember why.”
Billy felt a tickle against his shin, and glanced down. The knees of his crisp, white pants were now wet and stained, oversaturated with blood so that it dripped. The newcomer, they asked something from a distance and he looked up with an uncertainty. What did the Prince need?
“Power,” he said, blinking. Like it was obvious. “We have it, and he wants it.”