Week 8, Title: Chiaroscuro Dreaming
Feb. 5th, 2016 09:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swirlsofpurpleShe’s running. Running. Running. Lungs burn. Gunpowder scent surrounds. Ears ring. Eyes see only greys. It’s too dark. More gunshots. Running. Running. Running. Mud squelches underfoot. Hands brace against a perpetual fall, battering away branches. Running. Running. Running.
Impact. Pain shines. Radiates. Engulfs. She falls.
*
She wakes to a soft light streaming through the window, covers held warmly to her, turns to see the love of her life by her side. She smiles a crooked smile. Just a bad dream, that’s all. It’s a Saturday and they walk in the park. It’s bright, almost ethereal. She breathes in the scent of freshly mown grass. They have a picnic with overly jammed sandwiches and lie down to look at the clouds. She thinks one looks like a dragon. She closes her eyes.
*
She wakes to copper. Blood. Sticking, spreading. Pain and dark. She moves her limbs until she can lift her body from the ground. Screams. A cold floor and heavy latches. She bangs her hands against the metal walls until exhaustion lays her down.
*
She wakes to the fluorescents flickering above her. The light of her life chuckles and she jovially pretends she never fell asleep. They wind their arms around each other as they walk home. The moon bathes them in its muted glow. The air smells fresh, clean, alive.
*
She’s sitting across from a shrink. Doctorates hang high on the walls, the furniture is soft and comfortable, and a woman with thin lips and wire-rim glasses sits across from her like a pastiche of psychiatry personified.
“You’re having trouble sleeping.”
She stares stonily and doesn’t say, ‘I’m having trouble waking’.
No one says anything for a while. She supposes this in itself is a ploy but she’s becoming too tired to care.
“I dream and I wake up. I don’t know which is real. One world or the other. Whenever I’m in one it seems real.”
“Are there no hints? No feelings you have as to which is reality?”
“The good one is a dream I think. The good one is always a dream.”
“That’s an interesting outlook. If the ‘bad version’ is the real one, how did you get from there to here? Do you remember?”
She smirks. “I’m not here for some therapy for PTSD that’s for sure.”
“Why do you think you’re here?”
“I think this is an interrogation.”
The woman frowns, a tiny crease forms at the ridge of her brow, and says, “We cannot help you until you let us.”
*
She wakes to light. She wakes to darkness.
She sits on the psychiatrist’s couch, and chair, and window seat. She floats around the room. She’s lost count of how many sessions she’s had. She’s bored.
“Maybe neither one is real.”
The woman’s eyes brighten for the tiniest of moments before shuttering into their previous form, gazing at notes.
“What makes you think that?”
“I can’t tell them apart.”
The woman smiles, “This is good. This is progress. What do you remember of reality?”
She’s confused by this question, by the muted, kind, enthusiasm. And more so by her own answer, “I don’t know.”
*
“The test subject now believes all of her previous memories are false. She is now ready for memory implantation.”
*
She stares coldly.
“Have you changed your mind?”
“No. I just don’t know what’s real.”
“Do you think this isn’t real?”
She smiles viciously, “Would that scare you? The idea that none of this is real? There’s that theory that you can’t be sure of anything being real other than yourself. It’s a scary thought. But it shies away from a scarier thought; what if you yourself weren’t real and you didn’t know.”
*
“The test subject continues to resist. Different methodologies will be attempted.”
*
She takes a trip, to meet people she’s supposed to know. The psychiatrist woman smiles kindly and shakes the hands of her would be friends. They ply her with their sympathetic smiles. They hope she will get better soon.
The soft brightness reminds her of lazy mornings in bed.
*
There are shadows under the door. She crawls backwards through this cocoon of reality. The psychiatrist woman smiles at her.
She holds the gun in front of her, points.
The woman’s smile drops, “Where did you get that?”
“Like I said, this isn’t real.” She fires.
*
She wakes.
She’s wearing a hospital gown. There are needles stuck in her. Nodes and electrodes cover her all over. She pulls them off. There are people coming in the room, all calm and smiley. She bats them away. Her arms are too weak. Someone injects her. As her world fades to darkness, she hears,
“The test subject is aware.”
Impact. Pain shines. Radiates. Engulfs. She falls.
*
She wakes to a soft light streaming through the window, covers held warmly to her, turns to see the love of her life by her side. She smiles a crooked smile. Just a bad dream, that’s all. It’s a Saturday and they walk in the park. It’s bright, almost ethereal. She breathes in the scent of freshly mown grass. They have a picnic with overly jammed sandwiches and lie down to look at the clouds. She thinks one looks like a dragon. She closes her eyes.
*
She wakes to copper. Blood. Sticking, spreading. Pain and dark. She moves her limbs until she can lift her body from the ground. Screams. A cold floor and heavy latches. She bangs her hands against the metal walls until exhaustion lays her down.
*
She wakes to the fluorescents flickering above her. The light of her life chuckles and she jovially pretends she never fell asleep. They wind their arms around each other as they walk home. The moon bathes them in its muted glow. The air smells fresh, clean, alive.
*
She’s sitting across from a shrink. Doctorates hang high on the walls, the furniture is soft and comfortable, and a woman with thin lips and wire-rim glasses sits across from her like a pastiche of psychiatry personified.
“You’re having trouble sleeping.”
She stares stonily and doesn’t say, ‘I’m having trouble waking’.
No one says anything for a while. She supposes this in itself is a ploy but she’s becoming too tired to care.
“I dream and I wake up. I don’t know which is real. One world or the other. Whenever I’m in one it seems real.”
“Are there no hints? No feelings you have as to which is reality?”
“The good one is a dream I think. The good one is always a dream.”
“That’s an interesting outlook. If the ‘bad version’ is the real one, how did you get from there to here? Do you remember?”
She smirks. “I’m not here for some therapy for PTSD that’s for sure.”
“Why do you think you’re here?”
“I think this is an interrogation.”
The woman frowns, a tiny crease forms at the ridge of her brow, and says, “We cannot help you until you let us.”
*
She wakes to light. She wakes to darkness.
She sits on the psychiatrist’s couch, and chair, and window seat. She floats around the room. She’s lost count of how many sessions she’s had. She’s bored.
“Maybe neither one is real.”
The woman’s eyes brighten for the tiniest of moments before shuttering into their previous form, gazing at notes.
“What makes you think that?”
“I can’t tell them apart.”
The woman smiles, “This is good. This is progress. What do you remember of reality?”
She’s confused by this question, by the muted, kind, enthusiasm. And more so by her own answer, “I don’t know.”
*
“The test subject now believes all of her previous memories are false. She is now ready for memory implantation.”
*
She stares coldly.
“Have you changed your mind?”
“No. I just don’t know what’s real.”
“Do you think this isn’t real?”
She smiles viciously, “Would that scare you? The idea that none of this is real? There’s that theory that you can’t be sure of anything being real other than yourself. It’s a scary thought. But it shies away from a scarier thought; what if you yourself weren’t real and you didn’t know.”
*
“The test subject continues to resist. Different methodologies will be attempted.”
*
She takes a trip, to meet people she’s supposed to know. The psychiatrist woman smiles kindly and shakes the hands of her would be friends. They ply her with their sympathetic smiles. They hope she will get better soon.
The soft brightness reminds her of lazy mornings in bed.
*
There are shadows under the door. She crawls backwards through this cocoon of reality. The psychiatrist woman smiles at her.
She holds the gun in front of her, points.
The woman’s smile drops, “Where did you get that?”
“Like I said, this isn’t real.” She fires.
*
She wakes.
She’s wearing a hospital gown. There are needles stuck in her. Nodes and electrodes cover her all over. She pulls them off. There are people coming in the room, all calm and smiley. She bats them away. Her arms are too weak. Someone injects her. As her world fades to darkness, she hears,
“The test subject is aware.”