Chapter Text
I don’t know when the darkness behind my eyelids turn into blood-red faces—and they were blood-red; I’d know, having to see that annoying color in the toilet every month—and the humming of the computers in my living-room-bedroom turned into crying and screaming in a language I can’t understand. My 10/10 observation skills told me they were in pain.
Then I was in pain.
And it wasn't the annoying, too-dull-throb of a headache kind of pain.
Nor was it the irritating stabs in your guts after digesting something you shouldn’t have eaten and are now telling you that you better get on that toilet right now or face the Consequences. The sour stuff is evil, I tell you.
Nah, it was a heavy shunk in your chest that burns as the seconds tick on, the tearing of your muscles like someone pulled out a fork and started shredding you for some leftover rotisserie chicken porridge, every open wound stinging like a fresh paper-cut of unknown origins you accidentally got soapy water into.
And that improved my opinion of this strangely lucid dream (because what else could it be?) from ‘This is weird and loud and kinda boring,’ to ‘9/10; Reruns would be greatly appreciated.’
Anyway, since I have the pain tolerance of a coward (i.e., not a lot), this level of pain should be leaving me in the state of something a little more than a shaking puddle of…something, and extra blurry vision, courtesy of half my body’s water leaving via my eyes (and the other half leaving via blood loss).
Except the red faces were still in perfect clarity (for the one second that they’re in my field of view) and I can still distinguish the sounds of their screams. With this much lucidity, I wasn't even sure that this was still a dream. But what else could it be? Real life didn't have any place where one could be surrounded by flying red heads and get their ears screamed out and be metaphysically(?) burning without actually burning. Probably. Seventeen years isn’t that long a life.
Something tugs at my chest. If I could feel my feet, I probably would’ve taken a step forward to not trip.
I look down.
For some reason, I’m disappointed that not a lot changes. I don’t have a body; it’s just the heads—souls?—still tearing through me, but now with a view of the tops of their heads.
The something tugs again. I don’t “stumble” again, but I attempt to lean towards it (keyword attempt. I told you about the lack of gravity and stuff, right?)
Should I follow along?
(The answer comes easy, especially since I’m lucid for once.
Dreams are the best time to make stupid decisions.)
I lean forward enough to see more tops of heads than faces and start doing the breaststroke with all the skill of someone who only knows how to swim in theory.
It works well enough. Probably.
I can’t actually tell if I’m getting anywhere, since I can’t see anything but red shooting past me, but it’s pretty satisfying to pull myself through thick soul-jelly, so I keep doing it. It helps that the burning lessens the more I move. Who knew burning alive was like muscle soreness?
For a second, I consider saying “excuse me” as I make my way through. Then I remember all the times I’ve had to repeat myself when I thought I was loud enough and all the times I get no response at all and I shrink a little.
Still…being polite wouldn’t hurt, would it?
So I politely swim through—if you can call propelling yourself by pushing people’s faces away while murmuring, Excuse me, polite—more of the soul-jelly-soup. It’s more for my sense of morality (or whatever you call that) anyway.
Help me! Mom—
Stop— Please! It hurts—
My hand pauses mid stroke.
That’s not English, is it?
[ — ]! Somebody—
No, it’s not.
It’s not like any language I’ve heard, yet I can understand them perfectly. Well, almost perfectly.
Please, please, please, please, please—
And is it just me, or is the sudden comprehension making everything louder?
I finish my stroke.
…you (swear word?)! You better stop this (oh that’s another one) right now, you (funny how I don’t understand these words), ‘cuz when I get my (hey, someone said that one before) hands on your (oh shit, that’s a long string of angry gibberish), the only (eep) you’ll be seeing is the red of your (fucking?) insides.
Eesh, that’s a lot of angry. I swim faster to get away.
My hand brushes against something hard. Cold.
The volume spikes. I flinch back.
My stomach threatens to crawl out of my throat when I can’t find the cold thing again.
It’s important. I don’t know why, but I know I need to get to it again.
I touch the cold. The screams ring in my ears when I wrap my fingers around it, but I don’t let go this time.
It—a stone?—pulses.
(They’re not supposed to do that right? Oh, well. Dream logic is weird.)
I pull.
The suffocating red falls to empty, seamless white in the blink of an eye.
A chill shoots up my spine. No sounds, no movement. Just me—with my stiff joints and aching muscles (mayhaps this isn’t a dream), a hoarse throat as if I were also screaming—and a faint buzzing coming from my hand.
Shit, I can see my hand. The mole on the base of my thumb is still there (even when I look away and back—it’s in the same spot—that doesn’t happen in dreams—), the skin on my joints and fingertips cracked and pink, but healing (just like in real life).
And sitting in my palm, an innocently menacing red, is a stone.
My first thought was: Pretty.
My second thought was: Have I been reading too many FMA and Harry Potter fics? This is giving me Philosopher’s Stone vibes.
It pulses again, warm against my skin. Wasn’t it cold before? Or was that a temperature difference thing now that I’m not surrounded by souls?
Acedia.
My fingers tighten around the Stone. The voice booms around me, coming from who-knows-where.
My Noon-Day Devil.
I can’t tell if the throbbing in my hand is from my heartbeat or from the Stone’s maybe-alive status.
Is that teeth?
Are they floating ?
I tilt my head, only for the floor to drop from underneath, taking my stomach with it.
That toothy grin stays level as the world flickers again.
Red. White. Red. Black. White?
Good luck, little Homunculus.
Wait, what.
The grin widens.
Awaken, my child.
Oi oi oi, that’s Truth, innit— You can’t just— WAIT—
Nobody waits—and my eyes open to meet the cold, sharp eyes of someone who looks suspiciously like Father .
Shit, I don’t think I’m in California anymore.