RP: Artery
Character: Cho Weasley.
Location: Flat; bed.
Date: 6th of May, 2000.
Status/Warning: Openish.
Summary: Be thankful for the normal nightmare.
Completion: Complete.
Flex -- Extend -- Abduct -- Adduct--
Circumduct --
And Cho woke from the nightmare gasping, laughing, although it was true: Fenrir had had the joint of her thumb in his mouth a moment ago, between the flap of an eyelid and the long breath afterward. In the dream her hands had seemed infinite, though they were small enough for a dinner plate, and to dust fuzz from the butt of a pretend gun. Her dream self had imagined him holding a disembodied wrist by the bone, and it had happened a moment later, his white teeth gleaming at her from the reflection in a wet floor. If Cho hadn't known he was dead, perhaps she would have been afraid still -- but violence had never been a new concept, not really. Long before this she'd been able to justify everything horrible in the world by assuming it paved roads, which was funny for a girl who viewed everything involved with her life as sincerely personal and focused.
Centered.
Why does trauma know what trauma knows?
In all truths, it was getting a bit late for these nightly horrors. She was better now, really, and she hadn't even been able to remember these nightmares before. It was strange that they had made her cry once, but now -- recounting the ghost of terror -- Cho became the complete opposite. It was true there had always been something absurd in the situation, something palpably mad about what had happened to two girls in the arctic... Separate from the horror it was a lark, an adventure story. But tonight she laughed mostly because he'd been puzzled by the wedding ring: yes, Fenrir Greyback, the same man wanting to spread her articular cartilage atop a biscuit for tea. In her nightmare he'd repeated something she only vaguely remembered -- probably awful, inappropriate -- and squinted at the hematite, confused. Dance music from a muggle film she'd seen years ago began to play, and it was all to the distant static that replaced pain in dreams. (Ironic, strange, oddly comforting. Dream-Fenrir did not steal the ring, but he did drink from her radial artery a moment later.)
Then, in the way that nightmares have, Cho lost sight of the story, falling into some mess about N.E.W.Ts and cellos without strings. In other words: the sort of dream someone might have if they weren't in the habit of imagining wolves on busy streets. In need of. Troubled. When was the last time ... ?
Which was why, startled awake by her own thrashing, Cho could laugh. Triumphantly, even, before Percy stirred; and then quietly, maliciously, until he began to mutter. Mister. And she had to grit her teeth: married and changing and happy and desperate. For a long moment all that could be heard was effort, as she could not breathe, could not really do anything but shake and laugh and hold herself desperately. Gratefully.
Where does trauma go, when trauma goes?
Location: Flat; bed.
Date: 6th of May, 2000.
Status/Warning: Openish.
Summary: Be thankful for the normal nightmare.
Completion: Complete.
Flex -- Extend -- Abduct -- Adduct--
Circumduct --
And Cho woke from the nightmare gasping, laughing, although it was true: Fenrir had had the joint of her thumb in his mouth a moment ago, between the flap of an eyelid and the long breath afterward. In the dream her hands had seemed infinite, though they were small enough for a dinner plate, and to dust fuzz from the butt of a pretend gun. Her dream self had imagined him holding a disembodied wrist by the bone, and it had happened a moment later, his white teeth gleaming at her from the reflection in a wet floor. If Cho hadn't known he was dead, perhaps she would have been afraid still -- but violence had never been a new concept, not really. Long before this she'd been able to justify everything horrible in the world by assuming it paved roads, which was funny for a girl who viewed everything involved with her life as sincerely personal and focused.
Centered.
Why does trauma know what trauma knows?
In all truths, it was getting a bit late for these nightly horrors. She was better now, really, and she hadn't even been able to remember these nightmares before. It was strange that they had made her cry once, but now -- recounting the ghost of terror -- Cho became the complete opposite. It was true there had always been something absurd in the situation, something palpably mad about what had happened to two girls in the arctic... Separate from the horror it was a lark, an adventure story. But tonight she laughed mostly because he'd been puzzled by the wedding ring: yes, Fenrir Greyback, the same man wanting to spread her articular cartilage atop a biscuit for tea. In her nightmare he'd repeated something she only vaguely remembered -- probably awful, inappropriate -- and squinted at the hematite, confused. Dance music from a muggle film she'd seen years ago began to play, and it was all to the distant static that replaced pain in dreams. (Ironic, strange, oddly comforting. Dream-Fenrir did not steal the ring, but he did drink from her radial artery a moment later.)
Then, in the way that nightmares have, Cho lost sight of the story, falling into some mess about N.E.W.Ts and cellos without strings. In other words: the sort of dream someone might have if they weren't in the habit of imagining wolves on busy streets. In need of. Troubled. When was the last time ... ?
Which was why, startled awake by her own thrashing, Cho could laugh. Triumphantly, even, before Percy stirred; and then quietly, maliciously, until he began to mutter. Mister. And she had to grit her teeth: married and changing and happy and desperate. For a long moment all that could be heard was effort, as she could not breathe, could not really do anything but shake and laugh and hold herself desperately. Gratefully.
Where does trauma go, when trauma goes?