Work Text:
Past 1940, Age 8
Charles woke with a start and a head that felt like bursting. His hands fisted into the sheets of the bed, opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. His eyes began to water and his body began to convulse.
He grabs his head, tries to hold it together because it feels like it's about to rip in two.
Slow, pained, and burning.
This is what dying feels like. This is what dying-I'm dying. God, I'm dying. I can't be, only eight. Oh god-
His body shakes hard as he falls off the bed. Finally he's allowed to scream. It's long and low and guttural. He continues to convulse; feels like he's swallowing his tongue.
And he can't breathe.
Can't see.
Can't hear.
Can only feel.
His blood rushing, veins constricting. Tries to cry out and feels like he's drowning on and in himself.
Then it all stops. Like it never happened. Like he never tasted the copper of his blood or the salty near bitter taste of tears mixed with snot. He lays there a moment, trying to catch his breath in the silence. Tries to roll over, to get to his knees but can't; doesn't have the energy or the strength.
In the silence, there begins a trickle. Just a trickle of words and maybe emotions and maybe memories and maybe nothing at all, but it feels like a little stream that broke through a dam.
-I could never-Oh, Brian more please-What was that-He's such a-Tomorrow, I must wash the-
Just these words, with no beginnings, no endings, and his breath coming in harsh jagged bursts.