Sarah Connor is cursed to be ever vigilant (ever_vigilant) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-06-19 23:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, neena thurman (domino) |
Who: Neena Thurman (Domino)
What: Narrative - Really, really bad dreams.
When: This morning sometime.
Where: Dom's Apartment
Warnings: This is a very triggering log, but I felt it needed writing. There's mentions of violence towards women, creepy scientists, regular violence, torture, and captivity all glossed over. But they're there. SO you're warned.
Status: Complete!
It was a dream, but it felt more like a set of shattered memories weaving themselves together right in front of her, before her eyes and all around her. The world wavered back and forth in location, at once too tall and too dark to see.
She was terrified, she was brave, she was a child, she was an adult, she was going to survive this, she had a plan of escape, but no one had ever left that place alive and there was nowhere outside of that place to go to.
The men came with their needles and their knives and their tools and the world was white and fuzzy, too bright to see or make anything out. She didn't know where everyone else had gone and she didn't know of a world that wasn't white and clean, she didn't know of an existence that wasn't punctuated by astringent smells and harsh voices. They told her to do things and told her not to make mistakes and told her about how the world was and she knew they were always watching.
He was always watching and there was no escape, but she dreamed of escape, daydreamed of escape, spent every moment thinking about being everywhere but there. There were long periods spent in darkness and in pain, without the knowledge of when it would end and without any appropriate frame of reference. And it went on for what seemed like days that rolled into months, waking in chains, sleeping in chains, being fed in chains, being tortured in chains, until - in the dream - she was certain that her life had been nothing but those four walls and the chains that held her there.
Something told her still, in the dark room that wasn't the white room, that there was a place outside of it. That there were people and things that belonged to her world that were missing, that someone would come for her or she would see those places again. There was a part of her that told her to be strong. In the beginning, there was a part of her that watched and waited, conserved energy and strength, and tried to form a plan of escape. As the dream rolled on, that part of her seemed to shrivel away.
Sometimes she summoned, from the depths of memory and despair, a name that seemed to sound familiar. A name that meant something to her more than other names did, that resonated somewhere deep within her. But the name resonated doubt and fear along with the more comforting emotions. Towards the end of the dream, she stopped believing in the name entirely.
The place with the white rooms invaded again, with that same familiar smell, but to that girl the world was tall and intimidating; to that girl the only world she knew was white walls and voices and being watched. That girl didn't know the name that the other woman did. That girl didn't know of escapes or conserving strength, that girl didn't know how to fight back. That girl didn't know she should.
They clashed and shattered and spun around before her eyes, a hundred similar scenes whisking past her in an instant. The fear and pain and despair and inability to break free, the abuse and solitude, and for a split second, she thought she saw the table with the tiny guns on it again, before the scene whisked back to the feeling of a man pressed against her and the sound of his breath in her ear, which is thankfully the moment that consciousness chose to free her.