Re: [Mental - Eames/Lyssa - deeply disturbing]
[Eames: far off in the bed under the eaves, is screaming. Continuous and constantly, until his throat is raw meat and still under the surface of sleep turgid with nightmare. If he were in the clinic then the dreams would be turned off at the tap, a conduit of chemistry and electrical connection but it will be physical exhaustion that stems the tide.
It is a tide. It begins with a cluster of people who have the sepia overtone of photographs as if their faces cannot be remembered in definition but only with reference to a flattened piece of paper. They are murdered unceremoniously. Shot in the back of the head on their knees. Strangled one by one with an audience of one vivid-blue staring.
In the middle it is a series of men. Their bodies are burned while their fat crackles and spits and they scream in cracked, hoarse voices. They are drowned, until their bodies are floating and bloated as wrinkled white raisins, with wide muzzy eyes. They are entrails and missing parts in the blistering black shell of a Jeep or another form of armored car. There is a man who waves merrily from the middle of a minefield and who is scattered in pieces, North, South, East and West. They wear desert-sand colors and casual clothing, there is an endless, endless parade of boys and men and statesmen who are murdered or eviscerated over and over.
Toward the end are a series of faces. They are distinct, they appear in memory after memory. There is some interplay but the consistency is perspective. They are subject to endlessness: death, the catch of laughter in a throat before suffocation. They are drowned. They are plugged into machines that heave poison into their veins. They are raped and brutalized, one after another is torn apart until they are nothing but skin and outward sinew and formless creatures walk about inside their interior. There are a few acquired memories: there is the interior of a blood-dark room and the shine of teeth in the irridescence of a glass and a smiling blond woman who is torn to snippets of skin and fragments to the cheery tune of a wax record scored to the sound of screams.
Eames's interior mind is walled off. But there is a doorway open and a parade of self is projected onto the exterior until his consciousness sags out because it is sapped.]