this is the second vignette i wrote on my phone while at work.
this one features a drug overdose, so if that triggers you consider not reading it.
White eyes looked over the room that would be their body's resting place tonight. Behind the white eyes the thing which denied itself a name felt tired, and fatigued after his long day of travel. It was funny, that 'his.' Such a thing as he who denied himself an identity still felt distinctly masculine. It felt natural to deny himself a name, but not deny his gender.
As he, only briefly carried away by introspective fancy, laid down in tonight's bed (which would not be tomorrow's, or the day after's) his mind gradually transitioned to dread. He knew what awaited him in the slumber beyond waking. He knew what lie behind his closed eyes. For awhile, he toyed with the idea of simply not sleeping. Waiting until collapse was always worse, though. He felt that when he confronted sleep, it was always at least bearable. When it snuck up on him like a stalker is when the dreams were truly bad.
So he closed his eyes and sleep eventually came to take its toll, stealing his time and bringing its friend dreams to wreak its own havoc.
He watched with eyes that could not close a particular scene that kept recurring in his mind. Two strangers, but one he knew. One who smoked cigars, drank, and who wanted so desperately to be his own man. Another, whose beauty was sad, sitting in bed beside him and who had already clearly drank much.
The nameless thing felt his breath catch in his throat, as he watched the man sitting on the bed take out a tincture of laudanum. It was always laudanum, and the sight of it always suddenly brought back memories surreal and hazy. It was always at the bottom of a bottle, with the roach of a cigar, that this man he was forced to watch every night tried to find absolution.
"Are you sure?" The question always came.
"It's from a new friend I made." The answer.
"I've been drinking though, are you sure you're sure?" Amusement tinged with sadness, and he knew the thoughts behind her eyes, to see the young man before her who grew thinner every day.
"You've had it after drinking before. Come on, it'll be fun." Never wanting to go alone.
"Vidar...."
As she used the name the nameless thing once had forced upon him, he felt his stomach tense and his choler raise. His hands clenched into useless fists, and he screamed at them. "Stop! This is madness!"
It was madness, and it was madness that brought this dream back every night. His penance for daring to act out of line, and something he had wanted desperately to forget.
"If you insist," the man who would later reject his name said with a sigh.
The woman, who he had loved after a fashion, made a face at him. Then she snatched the tincture from him, and drank half. As always, the man laughed at this. He drank the rest. Then the two laid down in the bed, in eachother's arms.
For awhile they weren't living in squalor in the worst of the slums. One never had been a prostitute, and the other had never been a thief. The man did not have to think of the traumas of his childhood, and the woman did not have to trouble herself with her own.
The dream made him watch. When she awoke, and drunken, tried to wake him in turn. Something was wrong; short of breath; heart beating too fast; numb in her extremities; need to vomit but can't; only for her lover and companion who did this to her laying in bed.
The nameless thing would never know how many details were real and how many were brought on by the vile god who made him relive this every night. It didn't matter. It was real enough. It and happened, and if it was only slightly less horrible in reality so what?
He watched as the man in the bed only calmed her with placating words. The woman who grew gradually weaker, until she moved no more. He watched as the man woke up hours later, to his lover dead by his hand. No guilt he had ever felt before or since was the equal of that.
The dreamscape blurred, and the nameless thing felt his heart harden a little more. He watched other things from the past he wanted to forget. His new beginning, a better Vidar, who rose to modest prominence in the guard. Then the same Vidar be betrayed by his colleagues, and the death of that man he had once been.
As he rose from the dream, his mind shifted to things past that death. To the certainty of a new life. A new name. Vidar was dead, and he felt so tired of the baggage of that past life. Who was he now? He had names he gave to people, but they were not him.
Perhaps he would find one in time. Whatever the case may be, he had a morning run to contend with. He made a mental note of one more sunrise that dawned on a sober thing, which had rejected insobriety for years now. A new self. Yes, perhaps that's what he was truly missing.
this one features a drug overdose, so if that triggers you consider not reading it.
White eyes looked over the room that would be their body's resting place tonight. Behind the white eyes the thing which denied itself a name felt tired, and fatigued after his long day of travel. It was funny, that 'his.' Such a thing as he who denied himself an identity still felt distinctly masculine. It felt natural to deny himself a name, but not deny his gender.
As he, only briefly carried away by introspective fancy, laid down in tonight's bed (which would not be tomorrow's, or the day after's) his mind gradually transitioned to dread. He knew what awaited him in the slumber beyond waking. He knew what lie behind his closed eyes. For awhile, he toyed with the idea of simply not sleeping. Waiting until collapse was always worse, though. He felt that when he confronted sleep, it was always at least bearable. When it snuck up on him like a stalker is when the dreams were truly bad.
So he closed his eyes and sleep eventually came to take its toll, stealing his time and bringing its friend dreams to wreak its own havoc.
He watched with eyes that could not close a particular scene that kept recurring in his mind. Two strangers, but one he knew. One who smoked cigars, drank, and who wanted so desperately to be his own man. Another, whose beauty was sad, sitting in bed beside him and who had already clearly drank much.
The nameless thing felt his breath catch in his throat, as he watched the man sitting on the bed take out a tincture of laudanum. It was always laudanum, and the sight of it always suddenly brought back memories surreal and hazy. It was always at the bottom of a bottle, with the roach of a cigar, that this man he was forced to watch every night tried to find absolution.
"Are you sure?" The question always came.
"It's from a new friend I made." The answer.
"I've been drinking though, are you sure you're sure?" Amusement tinged with sadness, and he knew the thoughts behind her eyes, to see the young man before her who grew thinner every day.
"You've had it after drinking before. Come on, it'll be fun." Never wanting to go alone.
"Vidar...."
As she used the name the nameless thing once had forced upon him, he felt his stomach tense and his choler raise. His hands clenched into useless fists, and he screamed at them. "Stop! This is madness!"
It was madness, and it was madness that brought this dream back every night. His penance for daring to act out of line, and something he had wanted desperately to forget.
"If you insist," the man who would later reject his name said with a sigh.
The woman, who he had loved after a fashion, made a face at him. Then she snatched the tincture from him, and drank half. As always, the man laughed at this. He drank the rest. Then the two laid down in the bed, in eachother's arms.
For awhile they weren't living in squalor in the worst of the slums. One never had been a prostitute, and the other had never been a thief. The man did not have to think of the traumas of his childhood, and the woman did not have to trouble herself with her own.
The dream made him watch. When she awoke, and drunken, tried to wake him in turn. Something was wrong; short of breath; heart beating too fast; numb in her extremities; need to vomit but can't; only for her lover and companion who did this to her laying in bed.
The nameless thing would never know how many details were real and how many were brought on by the vile god who made him relive this every night. It didn't matter. It was real enough. It and happened, and if it was only slightly less horrible in reality so what?
He watched as the man in the bed only calmed her with placating words. The woman who grew gradually weaker, until she moved no more. He watched as the man woke up hours later, to his lover dead by his hand. No guilt he had ever felt before or since was the equal of that.
The dreamscape blurred, and the nameless thing felt his heart harden a little more. He watched other things from the past he wanted to forget. His new beginning, a better Vidar, who rose to modest prominence in the guard. Then the same Vidar be betrayed by his colleagues, and the death of that man he had once been.
As he rose from the dream, his mind shifted to things past that death. To the certainty of a new life. A new name. Vidar was dead, and he felt so tired of the baggage of that past life. Who was he now? He had names he gave to people, but they were not him.
Perhaps he would find one in time. Whatever the case may be, he had a morning run to contend with. He made a mental note of one more sunrise that dawned on a sober thing, which had rejected insobriety for years now. A new self. Yes, perhaps that's what he was truly missing.