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There's a monster in his bed. No, a man. No, a god. A horrible, cruel, cold god. No. No, no, no. He knows them. They are familiar. They are warm, they are safe. They are protection. He just can't remember.
Tattered threads of knowledge drift inside his consciousness but he can't make them connect. He shuts his eyes and tries to concentrate, to remember who or what the figure is that lies beside him. Something in him answers, "Memories are dangerous. Memories are the last thing you want right now." Well that's ominous. But there's no sense arguing with himself.
Maybe he can ask them. They're sleeping. But... Not all of them is sleeping. "Dolphins only sleep with half of their brain at a time." That ain't helpful. They ain't a dolphin. It's plain as day that they're... A lion. A lion with the face of lamb and a voice like embers glowing faint but unquenchable against the all consuming darkness that aims to swallow up everything. They have the eyes of an angel. Not like a Christmas ornament angel but a true angel, one that causes fear and anguish if you look at it directly. Except... Their eyes are closed and they ain't talkin'. Imagining shit ain't especially useful here either.
He should just wake them up. He'll just reach out and-- He can't move. He can't move! Fuck! He's-- is he breathing? He tries to pull in more air and he chokes. He can't breathe. Maybe he doesn't need to breathe. Maybe he's not breathing because he doesn't have lungs. Maybe this isn't real. He tries to shout. A weak croak passes his lips. It's not much of a sound but it moves air. He tries to get more air. He sucks in quick little huffs, pulling back more of his own exhales than fresh life giving oxygen. Something touches him. Something is touching him!
There's a snake crawling on his belly. He holds his breath. He doesn't want it to bite him. The snake spreads its hand across his chest. The snake digs its fingernails into the skin between his lungs. He gasps sharply. It's going to tear into him and rip them out. It's-- got a wooden finger. "Snakes don't have wood fingers. Snakes don't have hands." Right. Snakes don't have hands. He knew that.
It takes a monumental effort to open his eyes. When he does he sees a hand on his chest. The hand is curled in a claw grip but instead of trying to rend him open it's pressing into him. The palm is digging into his chest as much as the nails are. It's shifting pressure on and off in time with his breathing. Oh. He is breathing. Breathing slower, deeper, easier.
The hand flattens and pats him a couple times. Good. Relax. You're ok. He thinks he hears a voice say. He looks at the man the hand once belonged to. The man is sleeping. It wasn't his voice anyway, he doesn't think. It was deeper, darker, something in it chills him. He probably just imagined it. The mind plays tricks. Noel's mind is like a fuckin' magician. Noel doesn't feel like lookin' for the how's and why's of all this shit. Noel just wants to close his eyes and go back to sleep.