The Dark Tower Dream [Part Two]
Who: Alexander Wolfgang, Reene Kuan. (Michael, Tom Hannigar, Zelda, Crawford Sands, Midvalley The Hornfreak.)
Source: (Age 33) Trial By Fire (A Dark Tower Dream)
Summary: Dreaming of an almost perfect world until the phantoms in the mirror chime.
Rating: PG.
The room carried a peculiar if not familiar smell. Flowers, if he recalled. That and the delectable scent of tomatoes. A scent he knew all too well for, at one point in his life, when he had woke up to it almost every day. With that in mind, he sits up from the soft bed with a slight smile finding its way onto his face. And a song. He hears a song. A woman’s voice, singing, carrying all the way down the corridor of the apartment.
He’s in an apartment. The walls, eggshell-white and clean, shined with a golden sheen of the morning sun gleaming across them. The thin veils of the blinds fluttered from the warm, desert wind breathing through. The lukewarm breeze on his face, the smell, and the song... He closes his eyes. Takes in a sweet feeling that resembles very much to that of comfort; and then, without a second thought, he rises to his feet.
When he enters the main room, there are more flowers adorning the place. Some are real, some are fake. She loves the yellow ones. She stands there, wearing her favorite green dress, her auburn hair bouncing over her shoulders as she turns around to face him from the coffee cable. She’s carrying red fruit in her hands. Her gentle smile is something else warming to be welcome to that morning. The glimmer in her honey-colored, almond-shaped eyes, and the dot on her forehead further compliment her appearance.
“You’re awake. For awhile, I thought you were going to sleep in.” She looks at him dubiously, like there is something wrong. She turns, but her eyes remain focused on him. “What’s happened to your face?”
He reaches up, touches it. Feels a bruise on his left cheek. He tries to coax her with a smile of his own. “It’s nothin’ to worry yourself over.”
“I always worry. You never tell me what you do when you leave to that city.” She pauses. “What do you do?”
It’s the same old routine all over again. They have danced this dance before, and here they were, stepping the same steps.
He is casual about it, rubbing the back of his neck while attempting a small simper for her. “Secretly, I’m a great masked avenger. I don on a cape and cloak and we all take on secret personas to hide our identities. I have a latent ability to read minds and eat ice cream in a-hundred-ten degree weather in less than thirty seconds. We fight crime.” He admits, it isn’t the most convincing story in the world.
“How does any of that ever contribute to fighting crime?”
“Then I’m a comedian.”
“You’re not very funny.”
“Everyone always says that. Now you, too.”
“Well, you’re not very convincing. I’m sorry.”
“No, you ain’t.”
“You’re right, I ain’t.” Every so often, she makes fun of the way he talks. She’s always been that way, and yet he never minds. “Do you want a tomato?”
She hands him over one, and eats her own. She does not peel it, or cut it, or mix it with anything. Instead she chooses to just eat it, like an apple.
Then she suggests that he gets ready, for they’re going to go out soon. He doesn’t know where yet. His mind is still trying to wake up from having some strange fog in his head. It’s as if whatever has happened before was nothing more than a dream, and this is reality. It is reality, isn’t it? And the dream...
Agreeing readily, they exchange a brief kiss before she taps him sweetly on the nose, as she always does. She continues picking away at a box of small grape tomatoes that his mother had sent them. They have always been her favorite fruit.
In the bathroom, he grabs his shirt to throw on and steps in front of the sink. He leaves the door open a slight so he can hear her talking to him from the lounge. The mirror glances at him, not quite following his same movements. In it, is a young man. His skin is tan, younger. He is younger than he last remembered in his dreams. Maybe. Maybe he was in his twenties? His early twenties? He looks all right, he notices. A little tired, but the healthier shape of the once-sick man looks back through the reflection and, in that moment, feels as if everything is going to be all right. All is well in his world.
“Think I’m gonna call mom today. See how she’s doin’ back at the estate, yeah?”
From the mirror, a fiery red-haired boy sneers at him from the mirror, and there is something wrong with his eyes: This isn’t a fucking dream, you know. It’s real.
Outside: “That’s a good idea. It’s been awhile since you’ve seen her, hasn’t it?”
Though she cannot see it, he nods. He was also considering, some point during their trip, to see his father’s grave.
From the mirror, there is another man. Taller, dark clothes. His features are kinder than the former’s, but he is troubled and disturbed. He is a killer. And the killer tells him: If you’re going to kill her, kill her.
He covers his face for a moment, his fingers brushing over his skin when he realizes that a patch of dead flesh begins to peel off.
From the mirror, a blonde woman with strange ears tilts her head down in a poignant bow. She is sad, and he doesn’t want her to be. But why? Why does it even matter to him? She tells to him: Let me help you. But he smiles and jokes and tells her that he doesn’t need-
There are no scars on his body. Although, as he laughs, he wonders why he should ever even stop to think that a possibility. He knows that there is no need for that woman in the mirror’s help. He could get along just fine. He will be fine. He will be...
From the mirror, he seethes. There is something terribly haunting with the way his reflection looks at him. The taller, orange-haired man glares but in his eyes he is terrified. Fists balled and face livid with hot anger, he yells: What the fuck’s wrong with you?!
He wrenches away from the sink. Even after pulling on his shirt, he feels as though something has gone array and he can’t place this horrible feeling that stabs in his chest. What is wrong with him? There’s something wrong, right? Right?
Outside, he hears the woman in the green dress laughing. It’s a strange and bizarre laughter. The song she sang is gone. Dead. What happened to it? He can’t place it, or why-
Suddenly, he hears a fast-past crazy song; an elsewhere saxophone, and this isn’t coming from the mirror anymore.
Why is it here? Why is he here?
He blinks, and wakes up from a dream.
No longer was he standing in the bathroom, with figments appearing in the mirror while spitting words of lies to him, but he’s back in the bedroom. She is lying on the bed now. Those once beautiful and honey-colored eyes of hers are dead now, staring vacantly up at him, and then he hears them. Her words. What she had told him just moments ago. Least, it felt like it had been moments ago.
The gun in his hand feels so cold and merciless in his grip. More so when he lifts it, puts the barrel into his own mouth. He can taste the gunpowder as he breathes it in. He wants to scream, but instead he shoves it to the back of his throat. His index finger contemplates over the trigger. There is nothing now. The scent of flowers and tomatoes replaced by the stench of smoke and blood.
Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.
It’s okay. She was fine with this. It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be all right.
And they all lived happily ever after.
Bang-bang.
There is no ending.
Source: (Age 33) Trial By Fire (A Dark Tower Dream)
Summary: Dreaming of an almost perfect world until the phantoms in the mirror chime.
Rating: PG.
The room carried a peculiar if not familiar smell. Flowers, if he recalled. That and the delectable scent of tomatoes. A scent he knew all too well for, at one point in his life, when he had woke up to it almost every day. With that in mind, he sits up from the soft bed with a slight smile finding its way onto his face. And a song. He hears a song. A woman’s voice, singing, carrying all the way down the corridor of the apartment.
He’s in an apartment. The walls, eggshell-white and clean, shined with a golden sheen of the morning sun gleaming across them. The thin veils of the blinds fluttered from the warm, desert wind breathing through. The lukewarm breeze on his face, the smell, and the song... He closes his eyes. Takes in a sweet feeling that resembles very much to that of comfort; and then, without a second thought, he rises to his feet.
When he enters the main room, there are more flowers adorning the place. Some are real, some are fake. She loves the yellow ones. She stands there, wearing her favorite green dress, her auburn hair bouncing over her shoulders as she turns around to face him from the coffee cable. She’s carrying red fruit in her hands. Her gentle smile is something else warming to be welcome to that morning. The glimmer in her honey-colored, almond-shaped eyes, and the dot on her forehead further compliment her appearance.
“You’re awake. For awhile, I thought you were going to sleep in.” She looks at him dubiously, like there is something wrong. She turns, but her eyes remain focused on him. “What’s happened to your face?”
He reaches up, touches it. Feels a bruise on his left cheek. He tries to coax her with a smile of his own. “It’s nothin’ to worry yourself over.”
“I always worry. You never tell me what you do when you leave to that city.” She pauses. “What do you do?”
It’s the same old routine all over again. They have danced this dance before, and here they were, stepping the same steps.
He is casual about it, rubbing the back of his neck while attempting a small simper for her. “Secretly, I’m a great masked avenger. I don on a cape and cloak and we all take on secret personas to hide our identities. I have a latent ability to read minds and eat ice cream in a-hundred-ten degree weather in less than thirty seconds. We fight crime.” He admits, it isn’t the most convincing story in the world.
“How does any of that ever contribute to fighting crime?”
“Then I’m a comedian.”
“You’re not very funny.”
“Everyone always says that. Now you, too.”
“Well, you’re not very convincing. I’m sorry.”
“No, you ain’t.”
“You’re right, I ain’t.” Every so often, she makes fun of the way he talks. She’s always been that way, and yet he never minds. “Do you want a tomato?”
She hands him over one, and eats her own. She does not peel it, or cut it, or mix it with anything. Instead she chooses to just eat it, like an apple.
Then she suggests that he gets ready, for they’re going to go out soon. He doesn’t know where yet. His mind is still trying to wake up from having some strange fog in his head. It’s as if whatever has happened before was nothing more than a dream, and this is reality. It is reality, isn’t it? And the dream...
Agreeing readily, they exchange a brief kiss before she taps him sweetly on the nose, as she always does. She continues picking away at a box of small grape tomatoes that his mother had sent them. They have always been her favorite fruit.
In the bathroom, he grabs his shirt to throw on and steps in front of the sink. He leaves the door open a slight so he can hear her talking to him from the lounge. The mirror glances at him, not quite following his same movements. In it, is a young man. His skin is tan, younger. He is younger than he last remembered in his dreams. Maybe. Maybe he was in his twenties? His early twenties? He looks all right, he notices. A little tired, but the healthier shape of the once-sick man looks back through the reflection and, in that moment, feels as if everything is going to be all right. All is well in his world.
“Think I’m gonna call mom today. See how she’s doin’ back at the estate, yeah?”
From the mirror, a fiery red-haired boy sneers at him from the mirror, and there is something wrong with his eyes: This isn’t a fucking dream, you know. It’s real.
Outside: “That’s a good idea. It’s been awhile since you’ve seen her, hasn’t it?”
Though she cannot see it, he nods. He was also considering, some point during their trip, to see his father’s grave.
From the mirror, there is another man. Taller, dark clothes. His features are kinder than the former’s, but he is troubled and disturbed. He is a killer. And the killer tells him: If you’re going to kill her, kill her.
He covers his face for a moment, his fingers brushing over his skin when he realizes that a patch of dead flesh begins to peel off.
From the mirror, a blonde woman with strange ears tilts her head down in a poignant bow. She is sad, and he doesn’t want her to be. But why? Why does it even matter to him? She tells to him: Let me help you. But he smiles and jokes and tells her that he doesn’t need-
There are no scars on his body. Although, as he laughs, he wonders why he should ever even stop to think that a possibility. He knows that there is no need for that woman in the mirror’s help. He could get along just fine. He will be fine. He will be...
From the mirror, he seethes. There is something terribly haunting with the way his reflection looks at him. The taller, orange-haired man glares but in his eyes he is terrified. Fists balled and face livid with hot anger, he yells: What the fuck’s wrong with you?!
He wrenches away from the sink. Even after pulling on his shirt, he feels as though something has gone array and he can’t place this horrible feeling that stabs in his chest. What is wrong with him? There’s something wrong, right? Right?
Outside, he hears the woman in the green dress laughing. It’s a strange and bizarre laughter. The song she sang is gone. Dead. What happened to it? He can’t place it, or why-
Suddenly, he hears a fast-past crazy song; an elsewhere saxophone, and this isn’t coming from the mirror anymore.
Why is it here? Why is he here?
He blinks, and wakes up from a dream.
No longer was he standing in the bathroom, with figments appearing in the mirror while spitting words of lies to him, but he’s back in the bedroom. She is lying on the bed now. Those once beautiful and honey-colored eyes of hers are dead now, staring vacantly up at him, and then he hears them. Her words. What she had told him just moments ago. Least, it felt like it had been moments ago.
The gun in his hand feels so cold and merciless in his grip. More so when he lifts it, puts the barrel into his own mouth. He can taste the gunpowder as he breathes it in. He wants to scream, but instead he shoves it to the back of his throat. His index finger contemplates over the trigger. There is nothing now. The scent of flowers and tomatoes replaced by the stench of smoke and blood.
Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.
It’s okay. She was fine with this. It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be all right.
And they all lived happily ever after.
Bang-bang.
There is no ending.