Sarah Connor is cursed to be ever vigilant (ever_vigilant) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-06-27 04:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, neena thurman (domino) |
Who: Domino
What: In-Game Nightmare and Canon Nightmare intertwine in this dream narrative.
When: The evening before the next log with Pete/Dom in it.
Where: Dom's Bolthole
Ratings/Warnings: I honestly don't know, so I'm slapping an R on this. I was encouraged to post it up here because it gives lots of insights to the character, but there are, again, glossed over mentions of scientific experimentation, torture, bad touching, and a whole lot of OCD-ness.
Status: Narrative, Complete.
There was little indication of the passage of time in the place with the white walls. The walls hardly ever faded, they never changed color. There was no night, and no day, and she was never in any room with a clock. The doctors had different faces now and then, but all doctors were the same. There was no change between the varying white coats and the smell of chemicals. There were no calendars. The only thing she really had, besides things getting taller and weapons looking more complicated, were the floors.
Her sharp eyes noticed the floors whenever they weren't learning how to shoot, how to reload, how to take things apart, to fight, to kill. The older she got - the taller she got - the more all of those things continued, but the scuffs in the floor told the longest story.
There were images of the floor from a low angle, like she was being dragged down a hallway. She'd counted every single one while being dragged from one room to the next. That had happened enough time to leave two trails in the floor, and as she got older, the trails got a bit wider.
There were dim tiles that she recognised from the room with the bed, the one they locked her into after all the lessons and poking with needles and questions and watching moving pictures was over. She watched the floor and counted the tiles while sitting on her bed, every night, until blackness closed in.
Sometimes the tiles were green and cream colored, sometimes they were black and white. The colors faded between the two as the dream continued, or blurred together. She had images of a room with nothing but floor, and all she could do was sit there and count the tiles, over and over and over again.
That room had 150 tiles, all of which were black and white. She had visited it in the dream at least 50 times. The crack in the floor had started in the right corner, and as time passed - with each time she visited it - it had spread across the floor like a web of veins. It was one of her more vivid memories, and each time that fragment of the dream came through, she could feel the coldness of the room, the feeling of her skin against the walls and floor. There wasn't any sound there, and she always felt sick, weak. There were bandages on her arms. She often wondered, in those times, what she'd done wrong, or if there was ever going to be any escape from that place.
But the girl in that room knew about escape. The girl in that room knew about an outside place, a place with people, tents, and houses, a place with tables of food, a place with benches people sat on in prayer. That girl recognized that the room with 150 black and white tiles was not where she belonged. As upset as she ever got about it, as hopeless as she felt, as terrified and cold, she never, ever, made a sound. That girl's hands were a light pale peach.
The floor with the bed had green and cream colored tiles. There was a time where she spent what felt like forever in that room, unable to move at all. Every part of her burned with pain and she often cried out, her voice echoing around the room. People's faces sometimes superimposed themselves over the the ceiling, which had 689 dots on every single one of its 17 and a half ceiling tiles. They spoke words at her but she couldn't hear them through the ringing in her ears. They brought the needles to her, then, and held her down when she screamed. One of her arms flailed into the light across her vision then, and she noticed it was as white as the walls themselves.
There was the room with white walls, green and cream tiles, and the chair. She'd never gotten to count the tiles or watch them crack, scuff, or change. The second she got into that chair everything always went black. A room with black and white tiles, and a singular bed. She'd counted the tiles while pacing along its length, 32 paces one way, and 20 the other. A room with green and cream tiles that had chipped here and there, where she looked at bodies on tables. The floor in those rooms was sometimes splashed with red, which was the only indication that anything there changed at all. There was a room with black and white tiles and rows of tables occupied by other people.
The rooms with the black and white tiles were the only rooms that had people as tall as she was. She didn't speak to any of them. There was a room with 50 black and white tiles that was so dark she could barely tell the difference between them. She'd counted them by running her hands along the cracks, before and after the man came to take her away. Even when the man in those dreams touched her in places she knew was wrong, she opened her mouth and found herself only able to scream in silence.
Sometimes she was a little girl who could speak, if she wanted to, and had white skin. Sometimes she was a taller girl who desperately wanted to say anything at all, with peachy-pale skin, and pinkish hands. Sometimes she knew there was a place with other people, that she belonged. Sometimes she knew of nowhere else to be and nothing at all that would save her. But both dreams went on, mirrors of each other or not, her vision splitting between the two, and in both of them she knew the count and pace and measure of every single room.
In both dreams, the only thing she wanted was for it all to end.