(no subject)
Feb. 1st, 2005 09:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jane_drewJane Drew dreams, tossing restlessly under the covers of her bed. There's everywhere a smell of the sea, salt, and hawthorne, though everything is muted, as if seen and felt from a great distance, or from under water. Jane floats in her dream, in the cool green darkness behind her eyelids. Suddenly, twigs from out of the darkness scratch at her, stinging across her face and her arms. In the dream, Jane flinches and looks around her in shock. Then there's a voice, a high, cold voice, all around her in the darkness. The voice echoes with an immense sadness, weighing down the air around Jane with its ancient sorrow that is tinged with anger.
"You never wished me to be happy."
Jane tosses in her sleep, brow furrowed in a frown.
"I did! I wanted you to be happy! You seemed so sad..."
"You never wished me to be happy. You wished for yourself and your own gain.
And suddenly Jane wakes properly, and the darkness is gone. The great smell of the sea that had permeated the room is absent again; the room smells almost clinical in comparison.
Only the twigs and leaves remain, scattered across the bedcovers in little piles and patches.
Jane puts a hand up to the stinging on her face. When she pulls it away she can just make out the little patches of dark red on her hand, blood from the multitude of tiny scrapes and scratches on her face. The same shallow scratches can be felt on her arms. Jane gives up on any chance of sleep for the rest of the night, and, after calming herself down by force of will alone, heads to the bathroom to start cleaning the cuts.
"You never wished me to be happy."
Jane tosses in her sleep, brow furrowed in a frown.
"I did! I wanted you to be happy! You seemed so sad..."
"You never wished me to be happy. You wished for yourself and your own gain.
And suddenly Jane wakes properly, and the darkness is gone. The great smell of the sea that had permeated the room is absent again; the room smells almost clinical in comparison.
Only the twigs and leaves remain, scattered across the bedcovers in little piles and patches.
Jane puts a hand up to the stinging on her face. When she pulls it away she can just make out the little patches of dark red on her hand, blood from the multitude of tiny scrapes and scratches on her face. The same shallow scratches can be felt on her arms. Jane gives up on any chance of sleep for the rest of the night, and, after calming herself down by force of will alone, heads to the bathroom to start cleaning the cuts.
