Post by ch00beh on Jun 13, 2011 16:18:05 GMT -5
Second story I did for the creative writing class. Was going to wait until my creative writing prof got back to me so I could put this through the third revision, but she's been busy or something, so here is this. Want some critiques because I want to submit this somewhere. I dunno where to, though.
And yes, I've used this title before, but wwhatever.
And and yes, this was heavily inspired by Homestuck and the Sandman. But zero Inception influence.
And yes, I've used this title before, but wwhatever.
And and yes, this was heavily inspired by Homestuck and the Sandman. But zero Inception influence.
Sleepless Dreamers
Dying hurts.
My white light is surrounded by a vortex of flailing arms, the dirt-caked hands feebly grasping onto anything their cold, colorless fingers touch. Every light tap sends a shock of pain through my mind and body. They don't want me to turn away from what should be inevitable for everyone.
A memory wisps into existence, gently plucked from my forehead and dragged before my eyes by a short, pudgy hand. Before I even know what the memory is, I can't remember it anymore. It's almost like I can feel the crevices of my brain being seared by lightning.
More fingers massage my mind from me... It's just... No. If I can just get over this I can find her. I shake my head and continue struggling. None of this is real. It's just a nightmare. I will the hands away. I shout at them. I scream at them. They move away briefly then surge back with more force. It's like they mock me for daring to stay lucid in my dying dream.
A calloused hand shoots forward from the crowd and covers my face, holding on with more force than humanly possible. I can't open my mouth. I can feel my conscious thought being dragged away from me. Something else, something warmer, shoves its way forward and takes me by the shirt and begins dragging me in a vaguely upward direction.
Sleep would be nice.
# # #
David's eyes shot open only to squeeze shut to block out the morning sun. Part of him wanted to prevent his throbbing head from suffering more by covering his face with his hands, but an uncomfortable pressure above his elbow told him otherwise. Habit took over as his consciousness continued to awaken, and habit dictated that he should replay the events of his dreams before active thoughts destroyed fragile memories. However, instead of surreal landscapes and odd characters, he remembered nothing. It was then that he noticed a regular, electronic beep punctuating the otherwise quiet space and an unusual weight wrapped around his leg.
This isn't home.
David forced his eyes open once more so he could find something to read. Sterile, blinding white focused into a paneled ceiling smattered with irregular pinpricks of black. He looked to the side, his vision settling on the words SODIUM CHLORIDE FOR I.V. INJECTION printed on a fluid filled bag. A presumably rubber tube dangled from the bag and ended at David's bandaged arm.
A hospital?
David looked back up to the bag and read SODIUM CHLORIDE FOR I.V. INJECTION.
I'm not dreaming. What happened last—Oh God, where's Liz?
David's eyelids fluttered shut, this time from a wave of fatigue rather than an uncomfortable sun. As he faded from consciousness, he could make out the sound of footsteps.
“I need a doctor! Mr. Walker is waking up!”
# # #
I love the smell of coffee. I lean back and put my cup down on my table, taking a long sip and marveling at the view from this cafe. It's one of my favorite places; it's busy enough that I can lose myself in a crowd, but quiet enough that I can enjoy the plumes of smoke and flowing magma outside. Under this violet sky, everything is just so serene. If only this dull pain throughout my body would go away.
I catch a glimpse of the rising sun in the distance and remember that I haven't caught up with current events yet, so I open up the paper. First headline I read is something along the lines of OPIUM TRADE ABOLISHED, but before I can really get into it, a redheaded waitress comes up to my table and hands me a receipt.
She asks if I need anything else. I tell her that I'm fine and go back to my paper. She asks if I'm sure, and I tell her that I am. She says that she'll be at the counter if I can think of anything, and I just wave her off. I'm trying to read this article about ArpaNet's recent trade embargo, and she persists in trying to—wait, embargo? I look at the article's title again.
PIE OUTLAWED IN EASTERN EUROPE
God dammit. A dream, and I fell for it.
The dull throbbing throughout my body turns into pain again, though it's not as terrible as before. Or it's not as terrible as it will be later. Whatever. I hate time travel sometimes.
I look back at the counter, and the waitress smiles at me as I walk up to her. I recognize that smile. It's the kind you give a kid you reassure with lies. Trademark Liz.
She says that she can't believe that she had to pull me out. Thought she taught me to be a better dreamer than that.
I tell her that I thought I was a better dreamer, too. Then I say that maybe I'm only really good when she's with me.
She doesn't even bother to put up that fake smile. She just says that she's given up on trying to stop me because there are some things that I need to see for myself.
I tell her that I can bring her back. After all, she helped me get over the hard part. Why else would she do that?
She says that as stupid as it was to risk the dying dream, she doesn't want to see me go that way. She pauses, then she just says that it'll all make sense in the future, too. That her long sleep's reminded her of a dream way back when.
Time loops?
She nods.
God, I hate time loops. I don't say that. Instead, I just say that speaking of loops, I saw her earlier on my way to one of the Libraries.
She gives a questioning interjection.
Yeah, I say, passed along a message from me saying that dying really fucking hurts.
Oh.
Yup.
She says she has to go, then. Can't keep the universe waiting. Before I can say anything about how she needs to stop being a slave to time, she disappears. I swear I'll see her again but that doesn't mean I won't miss her til then.
# # #
“Recovering well.” A staccato of latex-covered fingers and cold metal accompanied the man's absent-minded voice. It was enough to push David into the conscious world and wipe the lingering dream from his mind.
“Ah! Good afternoon, Mr. Walker,” the same voice said as David's eyes eased open. The first thing he saw was a clean-shaven man with cropped hair. The first thing he looked for was a nametag. DR ALDEN. “We've been worried about you.”
David tried to recall his dream. It wasn't lucid, but at least he could remember it existing. What happened?
“Do you remember what happened, Mr. Walker?”
David tried to say no, but it only came out as a feeble groan forced through a dry throat.
“Don't try to push yourself too hard. You've been out for a week.”
David wanted to jump up in his bed and shout “A week?!?” but again, all he could manage was a groan and slight quiver. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then glanced at the nametag again. It continued to proudly display the name DR ALDEN. The deep breath did nothing to alleviate reality. His heart was racing.
“Well, I take it that you don't remember, then?”
David shook his head.
“Some people found you and your wife unconscious on the street not too far from here. Hit and run, it looked like. Besides the coma, the accident broke your leg.”
David tried to open his mouth to ask about Liz, then closed it again as almost nothing came out. He swallowed what little saliva was in his mouth to wet his throat, but the doctor cut him off before he could try speaking again.
“Elizabeth is in intensive care,” the doctor said. His voice kept an even mixture of rehearsed sympathy and professional monotone. “We're doing the best we can, but she was hit much harder than you.”
David's eyes widened. He tried to lean forward, an attempt to get out of bed and rush to her side, but the combined effort of the doctor's firm push and another wave of fatigue kept him down.
“I'm sorry. Get some rest, Mr. Walker. It'll take some time before your body regains full functionality.”
As David drifted back into sleep, a memory breathed, “I'm sorry, but you can't fight fate.”
# # #
There are healthy green fields and hills all around as far as my eye can see. The shin high grass bends and sways in unison with the shifting aurora overhead. Pillars of solid obsidian rise out of the field, bending at an angle just short of 90 degrees at the top. The pillars continue in a perfect line that stretches to the horizon, and as a whole, the way they press down without being obvious is more than a little uncomfortable.
It's a vision of some alien world, or maybe just some alien time on Earth. Time and space work funny in the Dreaming, and by “funny,” I mean “not at all.” Everyone who has existed, is existing, and will exist come here when they sleep, and we're all here at the same time projecting our thoughts into the world. Many don't remember most, if not all, of their unconscious experiences here, but if you know what you're doing, you can consciously navigate the Dreaming, maybe accidentally catch a glimpse of some other time. If you really know what you're doing, well, let's just say that navigation isn't limited to three dimensions.
Speaking of the shared dream, I can see a figure in the distance moving my way along the pillars. I take my next step, and suddenly I am on the next ridge, and I can see that it's me walking this way. He's more surprised than I am. I'd already been in his shoes.
He asks me if I know about Liz, and I answer with a positive. He states the obvious, then, and says that I must be a future version, and that he just found out about her an hour ago. He says he doesn't know what to do. He's talking through tears.
I tell him that I can't really help him and ask him if he remembers the cardinal rule of time travel.
He pauses to think. Just roll with it and don't overthink it?
Yeah, and don't do anything stupid like tell your past self what he's going to do in the future, I say.
He says he ran into Liz, though, and that she was pissed off about his future plans. Said they were stupid, but wouldn't say what they were.
In that case, I tell him, I gotta give you a hint. So I give him directions to a Library and tell him to decide what to do when he learns what's there.
He's confused, wondering why I can't just tell him what to do.
I tell him we're already messing with fate pretty hard. Don't want to piss it off too much.
He's still unsure but then he walks off.
I shake my head. I know he's going to do it because I did it, already.
You'd think it would be liberating to have access to any time or any place, even if they were just imagined and wished, but on some level, you need to believe that everything that has happened, is happening, and will happen is written in proverbial stone. Otherwise you'd just get a headache wondering about things like where I first got directions to the Library. The answer is that I got the directions from myself.
# # #
David woke up feeling like crap, which was a step up from where he was before. The sun was up, and apparently the staff had been by to check on him already since there was a glass of water on his bedside table. He reached for the glass with his needle-less arm and slowly sipped it, doing his reality check with the IV bag again.
He put the glass down, closed his eyes, and leaned back again. He had seen her in his dreams last night, but when he tried to approach her, she disappeared.
I need to see how she is.
David took another drink of water then felt around for the buzzer. It wasn't long until a short, twenty-something nurse stepped into the room.
“Yes, Mr. Walker?”
“I—,” David popped his jaw after the days of disuse, “I was wondering if I could be taken to see my wife, Elizabeth Walker?”
“Oh,” the nurse said. She walked to the still open door and pulled down the clipboard that had been hung up on it. She quickly flipped through the pages before speaking up again.
“Well,” the nurse said, “your chart says you can leave the bed supervised, so I can't deny that request. I'll be back with a wheel chair.”
Again, David was left alone with the electronic rhythm of his heart. He turned away from the door and looked out the open window, shifting his head in the curtain's shadow. His room was several stories up; he could see the flat roofs of several buildings outside, though a few towered higher. They stared back at David soullessly; with the sun angled behind their facades, their glass eyes were even duller than usual.
“Ah, Mr. Walker, good morning.”
David turned toward the somewhat familiar voice. “Morning.”
“Nancy tells me that you would like to see your wife.”
“Yeah.”
Something squeaked behind the doctor. Alden stepped out of the way as Nancy pushed a wheelchair next to the bed. David tried to sit up, but his unused muscles protested. The two staff members immediately came to help him get out of bed and situated him on the wheelchair. With the covers off, David now saw that the weight around his leg was a full cast. The embarrassment of being manhandled into a chair and the concern for a broken leg briefly flitted through David's mind long enough to be considered thoughts; he was too preoccupied with thinking of Liz.
Every hallway looked the same with their stark white walls and linoleum flooring. Without having to navigate on his own, David quickly lost track of where he was and only snapped back to attention when the trio slowed and turned into one of the rooms.
In the middle of the room, Liz lay covered by white sheets. Bandages were wrapped around her forehead, but otherwise her red hair was haphazardly strewn across her pillow and over her neckbrace. Instruments surrounded the woman's bed; those that weren't attached to her head were fed into her right arm since her entire left arm was wrapped in a cast. Alden stepped forward to move some of the instruments away so that Nancy could roll David's wheelchair closer.
“You said she wasn't doing too good,” David said. He reached out to touch her, but the IV in his arm kept him back.
“Yes, she hasn't responded to anything since you two were admitted. Even if she does recover, her lower spine is irreparably damaged. Honestly, she's looking worse every day, with a good possibility of brain damage. We might have to hook her up to the machines soon.”
“Brain damage?”
“Well, the brain activity she shows is strange to say the least. She's not brain dead yet, but the strange EEG readings aren't helping her case.”
Good, she's still dreaming. At least for now.
“Can I have a moment with her?” David asked.
“Of course.” With that, both the doctor and nurse left the room, closing the door behind them.
David reached his other hand across the casting around Liz's body to take hold of her right hand. He leaned toward her ear. “I know you're still in there. I'm fixing this somehow.”
His lips were quivering. “I'm getting you out.”
# # #
It's clearly night, but I can see just fine. Trees surround me and reach up toward a moonless, star-filled sky. Fireflies silently buzz about, occasionally freezing overhead as if they had landed directly on the heavens to pretend they were stars. I walk over easily over a dense mesh of tree roots, yet despite the uneven terrain, moving through the forest doesn't take an amazing feat of coordination and balance. There is no soil, and through the cracks and holes in the ground, I can see the lights of a sprawling city far below, occasionally blocked out by other floating masses.
The trees thin out quickly as I near the edge of the forest, and with the trees, the roots that make up the ground begin tapering to stiff tendrils jutting into the cool air. Soon I find myself with a clear view of the city lights below. Before the the ground is completely dispersed, I pass one last smaller tree whose roots all bend inland. I put my hand on the smooth trunk and walk around it, quickly finding a carving that says X MARKS THE SPOT.
The Dreaming doesn't take too kindly to writing things down; it's why reading a book or checking a clock is one of the most effective reality checks. It probably has to do with the Dreaming's stance on time and recording things. If everything exists already, why make a note? Even going to a Library in the Dreaming is an exercise in suddenly understanding things rather than consuming words in a book.
I give HIGH SURF WARNING one last look before turning around and nearly have a heart attack because Liz is standing right there. My surprise is nothing compared to how frantic she is. She's in tears as she almost knocks me off my feet with a hug.
She tells me that she's glad that I snatched the dream to this spot when the car hit. Says she knew I'd do it and that's why she came here.
Snatched a dream? I'm not sure what she means.
Right after the car hit, she insists, during that moment when your life flashes. She says I must have taken that line into the Dreaming.
It takes me a minute to realize what she's talking about, or really, when she's talking about. For another minute, I don't know what to say.
She asks me what's wrong.
I tell her the truth. That the crash happened a bit over a week ago for me, and that I was on my way to recovery while her comatose state was getting worse, and that the doctor says she doesn't have much time left.
She looks down, quiet. I can't bear to look at her.
So then I guess I'll see you in the Dreaming, she whispers, at least until I fade away.
No.
She looks a bit surprised at how forcefully I refused. I'm a bit surprised, too.
It all just falls out of my mouth. I tell her that I'm making it so the crash never happens.
She says that's impossible and that you can't affect anything outside the Dreaming. The Real is immutable.
I tell her that fate can fuck off. I'm waking up in the past, since that's where I'm headed right now.
She scoffs then asks how I plan to affect the Real.
I'm bringing my body, I say. There's a way to kill yourself so you can wake up at any time.
Bullshit, she says. She says that I couldn't have done it.
I tell her that I already did.
She slaps me, but it doesn't sting. She still tells me that I should have let her die than to try doing something so stupid.
I tell her I'm sorry, but it's, well, immutable at this point.
She just glares at me.
Look, I say, you're going to see me from the past pretty soon, right after I find out about the crash. You can try to convince that version of me that this is going to be a stupid idea. Maybe this me is a splintered timeline to an alternate universe.
She says she doubts that, but she sincerely hopes so. Then she vanishes.
I have a feeling that the Dreaming has some twisted sense of humor. Of course I would travel through this place and past the carving on my journey right when Liz got hit. It's where she and I first met, and every time we've been back, the heart we carved has been something completely different.
I look back over the edge at the lights below. No turning back now. I jump.
# # #
“Mr. Walker!”
David woke up to someone shaking him from the shoulders. He raised his head and found that he had been resting it on his wife's bed. “Huh?”
“Good, you're with us again. You went unconscious for a few minutes. Come on, let's get you back to your room so you can get more rest.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Only a couple minutes.
It was all the time he needed in the Dreaming. He found Liz, but she seemed angry about something. She was especially pissed when he told her that he'd bring her back, somehow. She didn't say why, though, or what he would be doing.
Maybe there's an answer in the Dreaming.
There was no way that David would let Liz whither away and die if he any kind of power to say differently.
# # #
Falling dreams are fun when you're lucid because they turn into flying dreams. I let the imagined gravity take, though, enjoying the wind rushing around my body. There's no feeling of vertigo.
As I fall closer to the deep blue ocean and floating domes, twin suns begin to rise. All it takes is a thought, and my descent slows substantially. I notice that the suns' ascension speed match my falling speed.
I come to a complete stop some distance above the water then hover toward and inside the nearest dome. Lanterns hang along the glass ceiling, though I can't tell if they're lit or not what with the time of day. Countless people meander through this particular atrium and along the glass floors above. They probably aren't real. Their knees pick up too high when they walk and I can't remember any particular face for more than a millisecond. They might not have elbows.
Except for one girl. The little kid runs up to me, her red curls bouncing with each step, and asks me how I can fly.
I decide she's real, so I ask her if she knows where she is.
She doesn't know, so I tell her that the first trick to flying is to know that you're dreaming right now. When you know that, you can do whatever you want.
She's a bit amazed then says that when she grows up and learns to fly good, she's going to go into the tree clouds so she can play with the fairies.
I tousle her hair then say that I have to go. I tell her she has a good dream.
With that I get up and make my way to a maintenance hatch. I look back and the kid is gone, but something strikes me as oddly familiar. Was that...?
# # #
David woke up in the middle of the night. His body was still weak, but it didn't matter since he'd figured out the answer: his death for her life. He could barely remember what the Library was like; only that once he was there he realized that a person only gets one body, but their mind can be at anytime. It's just a matter of killing the body to move it along the timeline.
It wouldn't even be a permanent death, so there was no reason to be upset.
No big deal...
Another vague memory from his dream popped up, one of some woman telling him that dying would hurt.
David pulled the IV from his arm and pushed the covers off. He carefully swung his casted leg down then followed with his better leg. Keeping his hands on the wall, he hobbled to the door of his room and quietly swung it open by about a foot.
All he wanted was his clipboard. He reached out and took the information and brought it inside before silently shutting the door. David flipped through the pages, looking for the accident report. It only took a moment to find it. The street was nearby. The date, of course, was over a week ago, but he would fix that soon. It didn't specify what time the accident happened, only that the couple was found at around 2:45AM.
David hobbled away from his door and to the window and forced it open, using all his weight to slide the panel of glass left. It was barely past midnight, so several windows still showed lights and cleaning crews. Otherwise not many people.
Alright then.
There was a moment of hesitation before David threw himself into the screen. Its frame buckled and popped out upon impact, and the man tumbled out the window after it and toward the concrete below.
# # #
I woke up to the stench of sewer, the shiver of night air, and the stiffness of a concrete bed. Habit told me to remember my dreams, and before my consciousness could ask “Where am I?” the images in my mind gave me a good clue.
I opened my eyes and looked around. I was lying on my back outside of a hospital. Fluorescent brightness cascaded out its front door, almost making me forget that the sun wasn't out, but there was otherwise no activity. I looked down at myself and realized it was so chilly because I was only wearing a hospital gown. At least my left leg was warm inside its plaster shell.
I tried to stand, and as I put my hand down to support myself, I noticed that it held a crumpled piece of paper. I got up slowly then smoothed out the sheet. It said ACCIDENT REPORT, though more importantly, there was a street and a time. I looked up. A billboard in the distance had a flashing display.
4/7. 2:13AM.
I did it. I actually brought my body back with me, but it would all be for nothing if the crash already happened. I needed to get to the place, fast.
I couldn't head closer to the building, or one of the staff might see me and try to stop me. I looked the other way and spotted a parking lot with more than a handful of cars and decided to go that way. Whatever broken bone I had no longer bothered me, though I still hobbled with all the plaster beneath my foot. I managed to get to the parking lot in a reasonable amount of time, after which I picked the crappiest looking car I could find.
On a whim, I tried the door and was surprised that it opened after a little wiggling even though the lock was down. I checked the visor. No keys there, that would be too easy, so I checked the glove compartment. A glimmer of silver caught my eye. The key?
Yes. Well then.
I put the key in and twisted the ignition. Soon I was out of the parking lot and on the mostly empty road, still trying to formulate a plan. I supposed I could t-bone the offending car. Left. Or do the heroic thing and put myself between them and the car. Left. I hit the gas harder. Time was getting close. Right. The street was just up ahead. Left.
Something flitted across the street. I slammed the breaks and pulled the wheel, tires squealing in protest. My efforts to stop were answered with a heavy thud and crunch as a person was flung over the hood and into my windshield. Another got clipped and was flung off to the side. The car finally came to a halt, and the woman's inertia caused her to roll back into the street, her crimson hair burning in the incandescent street lights while flowing behind her damaged head.