11-17-2007, 05:09 AM
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indent He dreamt, as he always did. The dreams were not always the same; sometimes he walked alone, through empty woods and dark skies. Sometimes others were there; Anya, now grown, who embraced him and then stabbed him in the back, smiling. His father, a dark wraith with fire-red eyes burning, fought him like the devil. Perhaps his mother, who sang sweetly or turned on him, screaming holy words and claiming he was marked for damnation and deserved to die. A madman, grinning at him, whose grin remained as Ahren ripped his face off. A stranger, a shadow, who was beaten in an alley, cut down without reason. He never dreamt of better times.
indent The dream tonight was one he had before. In it, he stood watching a building burn. It was his father who came in this dream, his father as Ahren remembered him. He had never seen what the cancer had done. There were few words spoken, translated into violence. Each time he was struck he bled, and each time he felt like this was doing nothing. Damian kept laughing, kept screaming, kept hitting him. It was his father who slaughtered him in this dream, and it was his laughter Ahren heard when he woke with a start.
indent Darkness, sweet, silent, still. It was snowing again. The makeshift hut he and Misery lived in only did so much. He couldn’t stand her smell at that moment—it was his smell on her, because she kept him alive. She still talked to him. Sometimes Ahren wished she had died when Damian had. Pushing off the fur blanket he had tanned not two weeks ago, the young man (who was not half so young anymore) climbed from the elevated cot and made his way outside. There was no moon and there was no sound. Just the snow, falling quietly, reminding him of the gentle indifference of the world.
indent It comforted him. Striking a match, Ahren lit a cigarette and moved away from the building, eyes glowing faintly in the half-light of nightfall.
indent He dreamt, as he always did. The dreams were not always the same; sometimes he walked alone, through empty woods and dark skies. Sometimes others were there; Anya, now grown, who embraced him and then stabbed him in the back, smiling. His father, a dark wraith with fire-red eyes burning, fought him like the devil. Perhaps his mother, who sang sweetly or turned on him, screaming holy words and claiming he was marked for damnation and deserved to die. A madman, grinning at him, whose grin remained as Ahren ripped his face off. A stranger, a shadow, who was beaten in an alley, cut down without reason. He never dreamt of better times.
indent The dream tonight was one he had before. In it, he stood watching a building burn. It was his father who came in this dream, his father as Ahren remembered him. He had never seen what the cancer had done. There were few words spoken, translated into violence. Each time he was struck he bled, and each time he felt like this was doing nothing. Damian kept laughing, kept screaming, kept hitting him. It was his father who slaughtered him in this dream, and it was his laughter Ahren heard when he woke with a start.
indent Darkness, sweet, silent, still. It was snowing again. The makeshift hut he and Misery lived in only did so much. He couldn’t stand her smell at that moment—it was his smell on her, because she kept him alive. She still talked to him. Sometimes Ahren wished she had died when Damian had. Pushing off the fur blanket he had tanned not two weeks ago, the young man (who was not half so young anymore) climbed from the elevated cot and made his way outside. There was no moon and there was no sound. Just the snow, falling quietly, reminding him of the gentle indifference of the world.
indent It comforted him. Striking a match, Ahren lit a cigarette and moved away from the building, eyes glowing faintly in the half-light of nightfall.