dream ★ 007
{Filter: Public }
“Mother, I want to learn how to read!”
“Oz,” a small, almost tinkling laughter. “You will in time. Don’t be in such a rush to grow up, dear. Take your time.”
“But Mother!...” He’s cut short be an affectionate ruffling of his hair, followed by slender, pale fingers drifting through his hair. “Mother…I want to make Father proud and become the best possible head of the house when I grow up!”
The woman laughs again, the sound like bells in the midday afternoon as she looks out over the rolling grass of a field. “Don’t worry. You will make us both proud, Oz.”
“But Mother!...” Again, he is cut short by warm, protective arms curling around his body, pulling him closer. He’s tugged upon her lap and his eyes fall shut. He can’t be much older than six or seven at that point. Eight at most. “Mother, will you read me a story tonight?”
“Of course. Holy Knight?”
Oz beams, despite his eyes still being shut. “Yes please!~”
“Just don’t tell your sister,” she laughs and continues combing her fingers through his hair. “I love you.”
It’s one of the last times he will ever hear anyone tell him those words.
***
He was young when it happened. The details have blurred over the years, the nightmares and dreams have mixed with reality, and the fears and heartache have metamorphosed into a plague. But the emotion, the feeling remained constant. Reality versus imagination never altered with the raw emotion that was felt in response to that one night.
***
There’s a shocking silence in the mansion. Considering it’s early morning, that fact isn’t too odd. What is odd is the scurrying of footsteps and the constant closing and shutting of doors. If he can strain his ears enough, he can hear the sound of murmurs and rumors from the maids. The male servants are somewhere else-his family had been strict about allocating where each gender could rest, in accordance to properness.
He tries to block out the noises as he curls further in the warm sheets. Oddly enough, the blankets have lost their warmth and now all that touches his pale, youthful skin is an itchy iciness.
***
It’s the first of many things that threaten to shatter the benevolent, bright boy he is. They try to shield his eyes; they try to tell him it’ll all be all right. Because that’s what you’re supposed to tell little boys, right?
“Master Oz…perhaps you should go back to bed.”
“Where’s Mother?...”
“The Master’s wife is …” There’s a disturbing silence that shatters the candlelight hallways.
“A bit tied up at the moment. So please, go back to bed. Growing boys require rest.” And Missus Kate begins shooing him back down the hall, refusing to let him hear or see anything. The young boy walks down the hall, arms hugged to his chest, usually vibrant green eyes a dulling olive.
***
When he falls back asleep that night, just for a few hours, he tosses and turns, and his dreams are stained with crimson. His breaths come quickly and unevenly. He shivers, and when he tries to pull the blankets tighter and tighter, grasping for warmth, instead, all that he’s left with is a growing coldness.
He doesn’t sleep but a few hours that night. And when he does, he’s curled around a partially water-damaged copy of Holy Knight.
[ Oz doesn't bother turning the Dreamberry off, and instead leans back against the headboard of the small bed, eyes staring off into space, eyes a bit duller than usual ]
“Mother, I want to learn how to read!”
“Oz,” a small, almost tinkling laughter. “You will in time. Don’t be in such a rush to grow up, dear. Take your time.”
“But Mother!...” He’s cut short be an affectionate ruffling of his hair, followed by slender, pale fingers drifting through his hair. “Mother…I want to make Father proud and become the best possible head of the house when I grow up!”
The woman laughs again, the sound like bells in the midday afternoon as she looks out over the rolling grass of a field. “Don’t worry. You will make us both proud, Oz.”
“But Mother!...” Again, he is cut short by warm, protective arms curling around his body, pulling him closer. He’s tugged upon her lap and his eyes fall shut. He can’t be much older than six or seven at that point. Eight at most. “Mother, will you read me a story tonight?”
“Of course. Holy Knight?”
Oz beams, despite his eyes still being shut. “Yes please!~”
“Just don’t tell your sister,” she laughs and continues combing her fingers through his hair. “I love you.”
It’s one of the last times he will ever hear anyone tell him those words.
***
He was young when it happened. The details have blurred over the years, the nightmares and dreams have mixed with reality, and the fears and heartache have metamorphosed into a plague. But the emotion, the feeling remained constant. Reality versus imagination never altered with the raw emotion that was felt in response to that one night.
***
There’s a shocking silence in the mansion. Considering it’s early morning, that fact isn’t too odd. What is odd is the scurrying of footsteps and the constant closing and shutting of doors. If he can strain his ears enough, he can hear the sound of murmurs and rumors from the maids. The male servants are somewhere else-his family had been strict about allocating where each gender could rest, in accordance to properness.
He tries to block out the noises as he curls further in the warm sheets. Oddly enough, the blankets have lost their warmth and now all that touches his pale, youthful skin is an itchy iciness.
***
It’s the first of many things that threaten to shatter the benevolent, bright boy he is. They try to shield his eyes; they try to tell him it’ll all be all right. Because that’s what you’re supposed to tell little boys, right?
“Master Oz…perhaps you should go back to bed.”
“Where’s Mother?...”
“The Master’s wife is …” There’s a disturbing silence that shatters the candlelight hallways.
“A bit tied up at the moment. So please, go back to bed. Growing boys require rest.” And Missus Kate begins shooing him back down the hall, refusing to let him hear or see anything. The young boy walks down the hall, arms hugged to his chest, usually vibrant green eyes a dulling olive.
***
When he falls back asleep that night, just for a few hours, he tosses and turns, and his dreams are stained with crimson. His breaths come quickly and unevenly. He shivers, and when he tries to pull the blankets tighter and tighter, grasping for warmth, instead, all that he’s left with is a growing coldness.
He doesn’t sleep but a few hours that night. And when he does, he’s curled around a partially water-damaged copy of Holy Knight.
[ Oz doesn't bother turning the Dreamberry off, and instead leans back against the headboard of the small bed, eyes staring off into space, eyes a bit duller than usual ]