OOC: DREAM
DREAM:
He is thirteen.
He's irritated-nervous-hopeful-anxious-worried-frightened-elated-confused… He is all of these and more, and the well-worn floor is beginning to show it. He feels like a white tiger trapped in a cage, unable to do anything but pace to and fro behind the uncaring iron bars in hopes of alleviating his growing anxiety. He can't even hear a single familiar coming from the room his eyes are set on. All he can hear is silence, his footsteps, and the steady sound of his heartbeat. It's been hours now, and ticking. The sun is even beginning to rise in the east.
He mutters a prayer. A white butterfly ghosts by an open window.
Then, noise. It startles him out of his self-focused reverie, flings him back into the present. Familiar voices from the closed room shatter the silence like it never was. He can hear the relief in their voices, in the atmosphere, as the tension finally bends and breaks. There's a laugh even through all the exhaustion in the voices' weary tones in a foreign language that he finds himself understanding. He finds he can no longer hold himself back, moving forward towards the door one long step at a time until he finds himself running, forcing the sliding door open, wide-eyed.
He hears a cry, and finds himself staring into the eyes of a newborn girl. She blinks at him, meeting his gaze with her own. It is then he knows without even really knowing, that, somehow, someway, she's his and always will be.
The woman holding her utters a name then. He'll never remember it when he wakes, but for now he smiles and says it fits her.
It does.
--
Time moves like the seasons do.
Spring; Summer; Fall; Winter.
In seconds, she's older; he's older. He's nineteen with hair longer than hers and taller than he has any right to be.
It's spring. They're walking through some kind of garden, white flowers interspersed with dots of purple, her small hand clasped gently in his. Her grip tightens as a white butterfly darts ahead of them, dragging along with it a long line of red string. The worry fades, and her eyes widen with wonder as the butterfly and string knot and twirl in the gentle breeze.
She looks up at him, drawing his attention as she tugs on the sleeve of his white changshan with her free hand. "Big world," she says.
He laughs. "Big world," he agrees, going quiet, says even quieter, "…big world."
She grins, pulling him along a bridge that crosses a pond filled with half-bloomed lotus. The butterfly continues to flit about just feet ahead of them, the red string wrapped around it so tightly that all it can do is flail, fight, and fall until it finds safe landing on one the purple flowers on the opposite side of the bridge. Moments pass, and before either of them finish crossing, the insect begins to scream a cry unbefitting of its kind. It jerks and twists as the string turns into thin, cutting cord like wire that tightens and constricts until the butterfly's rice-paper-thin wings and body are in in red-stained tatters.
His grip on her hand tightens as the butterfly emits a loud wail, and its struggles slow until it no longer even breathes. He automatically moves in front of her, never letting go of her hand as he makes sure there is something between her and everything beyond. There's gentle ring of wind chimes in the distance, followed by a period of mute silence as the day suddenly decays into a brilliant orange-red sunset.
Then, there's a spark, a flash of light. The butterfly's chest heaves as it breathes again. Its body is steadily changing to black, like spilled ink seeping into parchment. It grows, rising from its place on the flower. Its now black malformed wings are dotted with small white patches shaped like the symbols on a set of playing cards (spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs). It taunts them as its size becomes monstrous in proportion, now big enough to swallow the both of them. The flowers begin to wither and die as the new hideous form blots out almost everything until all there is is a dark, hopeless horizon against a blackened world. Its wings heave, kicking up wind he can feel and dust he can't see.
He then realizes he can't feel her hand anymore--can't hear her, can't see her. Where is she?
Where is she?
Where is she?
Where is she?
He panics, bolting forward, dashing, stopping, spinning around in confusion. He doesn't know where to go, what to do, and it's killing him. He calls her name over and over again in desperation, but hears nothing in answer. The expanse widens until it seems utterly endless with no such thing as a beginning nor end. And he's alone. Just him, the still world, and the butterfly.
It has jaws like a predator now. Spotting him, it grins, mouth lined with fangs. It continues to grow, beckoning him to take part in this game of chance with each flap of wing. Spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs. Pick a hand or do nothing. Choose wrong, it seems to say, you lose. It isn't a warning, just a fact.
After three long minutes that seem like an eternity of years, it makes a hissing noise and rushes him in a whirlwind of wings. He knows he could run, but he doesn't. Instead he moves towards it, across the wood bridge, determined, and decides to face it. Walk forward. It's all he can do. He can't go back, there's nothing left. Walk forward, come what may. Walk forward. Can't change what's happened and gone. All there is is now. She's all he has left. He must find her again. Has to. Has to. There's nothing left for him if he doesn't.
The dark envelops him in the form of shadowed wings. In seconds he finds himself sitting in a white-washed room with a single bed. He's leaning forward in a wooden, straight-backed chair and she (her, not anyone else) is sitting up in the lone bed, propped up with pillows. There are dark bruises and scars on her wrist that make him wince and want to look away, but they are healing. They are both older. Years older. Three? Four? He supposes this place, wherever it is, is home now. But with any luck, he finds himself thinking, it won't be for long.
"Big world, isn't it?" he says absently, thinking suddenly of a globe with continents, blurred faces, places he can't remember but knows he's seen or been to.
"Big world," she says back to him. "Bigger than I thought."
"It is," he says, thinking of all the land he would cross over and everything he would do for her. "But it won't ever be big enough."
He is thirteen.
He's irritated-nervous-hopeful-anxious-worried-frightened-elated-confused… He is all of these and more, and the well-worn floor is beginning to show it. He feels like a white tiger trapped in a cage, unable to do anything but pace to and fro behind the uncaring iron bars in hopes of alleviating his growing anxiety. He can't even hear a single familiar coming from the room his eyes are set on. All he can hear is silence, his footsteps, and the steady sound of his heartbeat. It's been hours now, and ticking. The sun is even beginning to rise in the east.
He mutters a prayer. A white butterfly ghosts by an open window.
Then, noise. It startles him out of his self-focused reverie, flings him back into the present. Familiar voices from the closed room shatter the silence like it never was. He can hear the relief in their voices, in the atmosphere, as the tension finally bends and breaks. There's a laugh even through all the exhaustion in the voices' weary tones in a foreign language that he finds himself understanding. He finds he can no longer hold himself back, moving forward towards the door one long step at a time until he finds himself running, forcing the sliding door open, wide-eyed.
He hears a cry, and finds himself staring into the eyes of a newborn girl. She blinks at him, meeting his gaze with her own. It is then he knows without even really knowing, that, somehow, someway, she's his and always will be.
The woman holding her utters a name then. He'll never remember it when he wakes, but for now he smiles and says it fits her.
It does.
--
Time moves like the seasons do.
Spring; Summer; Fall; Winter.
In seconds, she's older; he's older. He's nineteen with hair longer than hers and taller than he has any right to be.
It's spring. They're walking through some kind of garden, white flowers interspersed with dots of purple, her small hand clasped gently in his. Her grip tightens as a white butterfly darts ahead of them, dragging along with it a long line of red string. The worry fades, and her eyes widen with wonder as the butterfly and string knot and twirl in the gentle breeze.
She looks up at him, drawing his attention as she tugs on the sleeve of his white changshan with her free hand. "Big world," she says.
He laughs. "Big world," he agrees, going quiet, says even quieter, "…big world."
She grins, pulling him along a bridge that crosses a pond filled with half-bloomed lotus. The butterfly continues to flit about just feet ahead of them, the red string wrapped around it so tightly that all it can do is flail, fight, and fall until it finds safe landing on one the purple flowers on the opposite side of the bridge. Moments pass, and before either of them finish crossing, the insect begins to scream a cry unbefitting of its kind. It jerks and twists as the string turns into thin, cutting cord like wire that tightens and constricts until the butterfly's rice-paper-thin wings and body are in in red-stained tatters.
His grip on her hand tightens as the butterfly emits a loud wail, and its struggles slow until it no longer even breathes. He automatically moves in front of her, never letting go of her hand as he makes sure there is something between her and everything beyond. There's gentle ring of wind chimes in the distance, followed by a period of mute silence as the day suddenly decays into a brilliant orange-red sunset.
Then, there's a spark, a flash of light. The butterfly's chest heaves as it breathes again. Its body is steadily changing to black, like spilled ink seeping into parchment. It grows, rising from its place on the flower. Its now black malformed wings are dotted with small white patches shaped like the symbols on a set of playing cards (spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs). It taunts them as its size becomes monstrous in proportion, now big enough to swallow the both of them. The flowers begin to wither and die as the new hideous form blots out almost everything until all there is is a dark, hopeless horizon against a blackened world. Its wings heave, kicking up wind he can feel and dust he can't see.
He then realizes he can't feel her hand anymore--can't hear her, can't see her. Where is she?
Where is she?
Where is she?
Where is she?
He panics, bolting forward, dashing, stopping, spinning around in confusion. He doesn't know where to go, what to do, and it's killing him. He calls her name over and over again in desperation, but hears nothing in answer. The expanse widens until it seems utterly endless with no such thing as a beginning nor end. And he's alone. Just him, the still world, and the butterfly.
It has jaws like a predator now. Spotting him, it grins, mouth lined with fangs. It continues to grow, beckoning him to take part in this game of chance with each flap of wing. Spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs. Pick a hand or do nothing. Choose wrong, it seems to say, you lose. It isn't a warning, just a fact.
After three long minutes that seem like an eternity of years, it makes a hissing noise and rushes him in a whirlwind of wings. He knows he could run, but he doesn't. Instead he moves towards it, across the wood bridge, determined, and decides to face it. Walk forward. It's all he can do. He can't go back, there's nothing left. Walk forward, come what may. Walk forward. Can't change what's happened and gone. All there is is now. She's all he has left. He must find her again. Has to. Has to. There's nothing left for him if he doesn't.
The dark envelops him in the form of shadowed wings. In seconds he finds himself sitting in a white-washed room with a single bed. He's leaning forward in a wooden, straight-backed chair and she (her, not anyone else) is sitting up in the lone bed, propped up with pillows. There are dark bruises and scars on her wrist that make him wince and want to look away, but they are healing. They are both older. Years older. Three? Four? He supposes this place, wherever it is, is home now. But with any luck, he finds himself thinking, it won't be for long.
"Big world, isn't it?" he says absently, thinking suddenly of a globe with continents, blurred faces, places he can't remember but knows he's seen or been to.
"Big world," she says back to him. "Bigger than I thought."
"It is," he says, thinking of all the land he would cross over and everything he would do for her. "But it won't ever be big enough."