Chapter Text
Dream doesn't know how long it's been; trapped in this black box, every surface stained with dried old blood. Though honestly? He's not sure he even cares. He has lived here for a long time and he will die here. He doesn't care about Tommy, or Tubbo, or Ranboo, or even Sapnap or George. He doesn't really care about anything anymore. Well, except the flowing lava in front of him. The liquid wall. The only entrance and exit to and from this place. The only thing that separates him from the Warden. From Skeppy and Bad. From being free.
He doesn't know why he's still staring at the lava. He's not leaving. He knows this. No one is coming for him. But no matter how much he tries to get rid of the habit of staring at the lava he can't. It's the only form of entertainment he has anymore. He doesn't want to think or do, so he stares. Watches the glowing fragments of orange, yellow and red and tries to make out shapes. A face here, a piece of food there, maybe an image of the cat he used to have before Tommy killed it. He doesn't remember the name.
The lava was just something for him to stare at now since he's long lost the hope of seeing anyone. He watches it flow and sees if he can find patterns in it's slow moving mass. Sometimes he would think he heard the pistons moving, or would recognize faces of people he knew.
They’re never real.
It's the only light now. He broke the glowstone a while ago. He doesn't remember breaking it, but he knows that he did. Sometimes he feels the sores on his hands burn and his nose tingle with a smell he doesn't recognize.
The feeling reminds him of the earlier days when swimming in the lava was the only way for him to feel free and the sting of the burns the only way to be entertained. Since his clock was gone and at the time he'd filled all of his books, that’s what he did. He'd burned those books around the same time he broke the glowstone he thinks. He doesn't do a lot of that anymore. He’d probably run out of things to think about.
He doesn't think about what everyone outside the prison is doing anymore. Doesn't want to know since everyone stopped visiting him, even the Warden stopped checking up on him. The dispenser for the potatoes broke before he stopped swimming in the lava, so he just lived in hunger that wasn't strong enough to kill him. It’s been long enough that he can ignore it, forget it’s even there.
It's been 'a while' since anything had caught his interest actually. Besides the lava. Besides respawning.
The water in the cauldron hadn't been touched in so long that there was a visible layer of dust sitting on top of it. He hadn't even known that was possible when he noticed, but without so much as a breeze to stir the water, and since he never touched it, it's just been completely still. It makes sense. Just a little, he thinks. He would have conducted an experiment with it but he didn’t want to ruin the chances of it happening again and he didn’t want to use the respawn water. It would have been boring trying to wait, especially when he would go through.. ‘bouts’ of respawning sometimes.
He remembers his last respawn bout. It wasn't long ago. Probably. There's no way to keep track of time here. He'd been randomly hit with the weight of guilt after thinking about why he was in here again, what he did to end up like this, lying on the floor and staring at a wall of lava until it burned his retina and then abusing his infinite respawns to fix it. He'd been thinking about what he'd done to deserve what Q had done to him. A shiver. He'd already had an episode about it before but things happen to one's mind in this space. Especially without contact for a while. He feels horrible for wanting Tommy to go through this.
Well, he's had enough episodes to last many lifetimes, he doesn't even know how long they last, so he could be right. There's a lot of 'probably' happening he realizes. He's really not sure about anything. Without the use of time to keep track of anything, he just uses his episodes, or when it all started to keep track of events. No use thinking about it, it's nothing but fog in his mind anyway, like trying to grab a sphere of wet ice using a pair of chopsticks.
The spike of humor at his own comment breaks through his mind, surprising him and jolting him back into his body as he blinks. Oh. Seems like that jolt back into reality scared off his thoughts again. It doesn’t take much effort on Dreams' part to space out again. He doesn't bother trying to remember his thoughts, or what he was just thinking about. It's normal to forget now. Another spike of amusement hits him. Just like Ranboo. How ironic.
Maybe he would find that funny.
A small ache in his hip is brought to his attention as he regains feeling in his body. He hums quietly in his chest and wonders how much longer he can sit here before it becomes unbearable. Until he can't stand the obsidian digging it's sharp stones into his bone. Until he can't stand feeling the burn that's no doubt splitting along his skin. Obviously he knows the answer, and before he knows it he's flipping over with the heat of the lava behind him and staring at the dripping crying obsidian. The purple liquid evaporates the second it reaches the burning floor. Without fail it always reminds him of endermen, then the dragon, then XD. He hadn't seen it since Techno visited.
Thinking about the visit reminds him of the book. The knowledge that only he knew, the only knowledge that kept him alive then. Back then he had clung to that for all he had. Not wanting to die. Not wanting his fun with Tommy to end. Then later, when he was alone and hadn't seen anyone in what felt like decades, he was near desperate to get rid of it, to trade it for anything that would mean he'd get to talk to someone . Now he just lets his gaze drift to the chest next to his lectern and remembers that he doesn't have any more books.
Not that he’d have the strength to even write. He’s been starving for who knows how long and he stopped trying to work out when Qu- when Q had broken his legs after he found out.
He brings his hands up to look down at them and remembers that the last time he’d touched a pen in the purpose of using it for paper had been before he’d broken his hand when shattering the glowstone. His eyebrows raise a little in recollection. Oh right. He’d broken his hand. That’s why his fingers look a little weird. He doesn’t think he ever got treatment for it. Made it difficult to write. That’s why he burned his books. And his pen.
He sits up, coughing a little when his breath is stifled and his heart stutters. For a moment he believes he’ll finally be free, but the feeling is quickly squashed because he knows better. He always knows better. Just because his body is weak doesn't mean he'll get an easy way out of this. He's already tried.
A second barely passes before his body is stabilized, but he’s already up and opening the chest in the corner absentmindedly. He’s almost disappointed that there’s nothing in it, even though he knew it would be empty. He stares and remembers the books, how many he’d wasted trying to summon XD again in a panic because his admin summons weren’t working anymore.
With a sigh, quiet and indiscernible from his normal, slower breathing, he lets the chest fall close. He barely remembers what his actual journals contained but he most likely just doesn’t want to anymore. That’s actually pretty frequent now that he thinks about it. Not wanting to remember. That's most likely the reason he has memory issues.
He moves back to the lava and sits down.
It’s quiet.