circumitus: and you don't even notice. (staring problems)
Reybama ([personal profile] circumitus) wrote 2013-09-30 01:45 am (UTC)

a terrible dream

She’s been dreaming of the tower again. Asleep in a moment where the barrel of a gun presses to her head. It’s here she accepts that she is going to die, and with no sadness, nor regret and remorse. Her own finger squeezes the trigger. She is already dying. Letting go. Free and falling, tumbling headfirst into the red and black.

In spite of everything, she is afraid. She fears that she will fall forever.

Kill me, she had told them, though their names now elude her. Their faces take on the shape of blank masks, shadowed by something that is no longer distinguishable.

There is one thing that she does know. The one shape that she had taken the gun from... He is and was her brother. She thinks that she should love him, if she only knew how. She wants to tell him everything.

Her head bursts. She wants to scream but there’s no sound coming from her throat. The dream is fading.

I am wicked. I deserve to die.

That night, she hurt her brother. She nearly coerced and aided a man’s suicide. She allowed a woman to be thrown out a window. More horrifically, she begged someone to kill her. She stood there, her face burning and salty-wet; her words shaken and unfamiliar as she listened to her own voice say the words.

Had only hoped to perhaps offer peace of mind.

Faye Elms... Faye Elms. Something about that name strikes a chord, and the dream starts to become something else.

She remembers waking up in a casket. When she gets out, she has only a toe tag and her mind scraped of all things that defined her. And each memory that comes back to her over time is as pleasant as milk-bones thrown to starving dogs, which would kill one another for their share.

She sees cities laid to waste. A boy crying with blood in his eyes, his hands clutching his face. She is with him, prying his father’s cold, dead fingers from his still-living son as he is seconds away from being burned alive.

There is a particular memory she watches now: Snow falling over a Russian landscape, in this place called Kristiv. Through the sniper scope, she sees a woman. Sky blue eyes swollen, smoky strands of hair clinging to her bruised, sweat-covered face. In this treacherous storm, the woman is confronted with a monster as cold as the raging blizzard. She cares very little about the sanctity of human life, because she herself isn’t human.

But now, watching this moment, between the sounds of broken sobs, there is something called regret. There is a name to this feeling as well, and it’s always been there, buried deep.

Her name is “Isobel!”

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