00C Post: Dream
The glass extends for hours, floors, upwards until it touches the sky, the clouds lazily swirling around it as if it's the eye of the storm, a magnet attracting a whirlwind of pins. It lasts forever, the scenery never changing, not even the wind or the weather, the sun hidden behind clouds; there's only a hazy glow of its presence over the land. He's always the same as well. At the top of the tower he can't see anything, too high up and bound naked in the fetal position, thin plastic cords around his wrists, his ankles, his shins, his thighs, his legs to his chest, his arms to his legs, his neck to his arms. He's alright with this as the sound of thunder echoes in the background, but he never sees the flashes, only hears it.
The first time he sees lightning, it strikes the tower.
The glass is shattering, the lightning ionizes the air, everything is static and it keeps happening, keeps hitting the tower and it's faltering, tipping to the side, so fragile that he knows he's going to fall before he does. It's an endless drop and the glass falls with him, little glimmers like tears encasing him, a swarm of bees except they aren't bees, they're only fragments. He wants to hit the ground he hates so much just so it'll stop.
The sun breaks through the clouds, too fast and too warm, taking the gravity with it and he slows, slower, slowest, until he's not falling but hovering with those shards of glass around him, too thick to see through and refracting more light than he's ever seen before; it's blinding like a cruel northern lights and he doesn't like it, so why does it feel nice on his cold skin?
He's no longer in the air, he's in a field, a wide field that stretches on past eyesight but he can't look, the blades of grass are too tall, too thick and full of life, too vibrant and he's still bound. A boy appears next to him, his features blacked out, only the edges of his silhouette visible as if he's carrying the sun on his back, his left eye glowing like a teal LED light. His gloved hands run over his bonds and they wither and dry, snapping like trigs in the winter, they're powerless now, they can't hold him anymore. That boy takes off his gloves and puts them over his slender hands. Another boy is behind him, brushing off the ash the cord left behind while his shadow digs his thumb into the wounds left over, hurting him, bleeding him. That boy takes off his belt and fastens it around his waist. Another boy helps him sit up and he's smaller than the others, smaller than him, and that boy takes off his scarf and wraps it around his neck.
He wants to thank the first boy, but he's gone. He wants to thank the second boy, but he's gone. He wants to thank the last boy, but he's gone. The light is gone and night has fallen and the grass isn't green anymore, it's black like inky satin and tiny fireflies like stars dot the darkness, he's alone and he wants to scream but there isn't any air under this arctic sky.
The first time he sees lightning, it strikes the tower.
The glass is shattering, the lightning ionizes the air, everything is static and it keeps happening, keeps hitting the tower and it's faltering, tipping to the side, so fragile that he knows he's going to fall before he does. It's an endless drop and the glass falls with him, little glimmers like tears encasing him, a swarm of bees except they aren't bees, they're only fragments. He wants to hit the ground he hates so much just so it'll stop.
The sun breaks through the clouds, too fast and too warm, taking the gravity with it and he slows, slower, slowest, until he's not falling but hovering with those shards of glass around him, too thick to see through and refracting more light than he's ever seen before; it's blinding like a cruel northern lights and he doesn't like it, so why does it feel nice on his cold skin?
He's no longer in the air, he's in a field, a wide field that stretches on past eyesight but he can't look, the blades of grass are too tall, too thick and full of life, too vibrant and he's still bound. A boy appears next to him, his features blacked out, only the edges of his silhouette visible as if he's carrying the sun on his back, his left eye glowing like a teal LED light. His gloved hands run over his bonds and they wither and dry, snapping like trigs in the winter, they're powerless now, they can't hold him anymore. That boy takes off his gloves and puts them over his slender hands. Another boy is behind him, brushing off the ash the cord left behind while his shadow digs his thumb into the wounds left over, hurting him, bleeding him. That boy takes off his belt and fastens it around his waist. Another boy helps him sit up and he's smaller than the others, smaller than him, and that boy takes off his scarf and wraps it around his neck.
He wants to thank the first boy, but he's gone. He wants to thank the second boy, but he's gone. He wants to thank the last boy, but he's gone. The light is gone and night has fallen and the grass isn't green anymore, it's black like inky satin and tiny fireflies like stars dot the darkness, he's alone and he wants to scream but there isn't any air under this arctic sky.