|[ 017 ]|

[cold_dry_pieces]

I.
It’s cold and wet, which is never a good combination. There’s not enough light to see where you are or what’s around you, but the slightest sliver of white is visible in the corner where the sides of this structure don’t quite meet.

Whatever you’re sitting in... it’s thick, and when you’ve let yourself rest in one place for too long it clings to you, thick dark clots that you can’t wipe off because everything else is soaked through, too. It’s hard to know how long you’ve been here; your stomach’s long since stopped growling and you’re starting to feel a bit dizzy, but there’s nowhere to go. The space seems huge but it’s all the same, there’s nothing to be gained by walking around. No way out.

There’s an unpleasant taste in your throat, like you’ve been sucking on pennies.

II.
The walls of this room are white, but it’s clear someone’s tried to make it seem homey. The bright sun streaming through the windows falls on warm, honey-colored wood. A tiny bed, a small round table strewn with crayons and papers, a chair before it. There’s a small dresser against the wall with an empty goldfish bowl on it.

You know, without knowing why, that they’ll be coming for you again, soon. That they’ll ask you questions, and you know you won’t have the right answers for them. You won’t be punished. You’ll be thanked for being so cooperative. And then they’ll bring you back here, and they’ll leave again, and they won’t tell you all the things you need to know.

III.
The headache is dizzying, and you can’t remember how you got here; but you’re gulping air down like it’s a privilege to breathe. Your shoulders ache, arms bound behind you and out of sight, stretched unnaturally around the narrow surface you’re on. It’s hard to say what it is, you can’t turn your head enough to see and you’re too numb from the cold to guess what it is by feel. Your ankles are bound as well, tight enough that there’s little room for movement.

All you can really do is peer into the shadows and wait.


[ooc; open to all! each thread will be treated as a separate instance, unless otherwise arranged. Feel free to enter into any of the scenarios tho the dream might jump between them after, in no particular order <3 all threads maywill contain disturbing images/topics. May be slow but will backdate forever. If you’re interested in dream!injury/death/etc (which doesn’t necessarily mean real-world injury but might mean real pain,) please ping me via PM or something~]

Comments

[cry-reaper.livejournal.com]

As soon as the flat of the blade hits her, she starts pleading. "Don't hurt me, please, let me go - I won't tell anyone, I promise..."

But by the time he actually breaks skin and the blood starts to flow, she's crying trying to jerk away from the sharp steel.

[cold_dry_pieces]

It wouldn't be a nightmare without some blood, would it? He's patient, he's exacting: these are not conscious concerns for him, so they translate effortlessly into the dream. What he does is what he must do. This is why so few curses really bother him-- he's all too familiar with compulsion.

But it wouldn't be his nightmare if he accomplished his task; and after the third or fourth even, shallow slice, the blade vanishes from his hands... and the bonds vanish from her wrists and ankles. He takes an uncertain step back.

[cry-reaper.livejournal.com]

It takes a moment to understand that the bindings have disappeared, but as soon as they do, Mara rolls off the table. But her numb limbs can't hold her yet and she falls to the ground, pain springing from every cut.

[cold_dry_pieces]

She isn't much of a threat, but it's unexpected; and it's enough to send him into an animal panic, fumbling for a door. There isn't any, though; this room's bare steel, seamless and inviolate. So the shadow stands uncertainly in a corner.

[cry-reaper.livejournal.com]

Mara scrambles in the opposite direction, cowering and shivering, still feeling the blood drip down her back.

"Let me g-go, p-please..."

[cold_dry_pieces]

He doesn't approach her or answer that, staring dumbly from across the room at the trickle of blood.

The knife reappears from whatever pocket of dreamery swallowed it, considerably closer to her hands than his.

[cry-reaper.livejournal.com]

She grabs the knife and holds it out with shaking fingers.

"St-stay away from me!"

[cold_dry_pieces]

There's a rustle of nervous laughter, like dry leaves on concrete. He whispers.

"Are you planning to use that?"

[cry-reaper.livejournal.com]

Her hand is slick with blood and it's difficult to keep the knife in her shaking hand.

"Only if you t-try to... try t-to..."

What was he trying to do, anyway?

she's welcome to non-fatally wound him if you'd like~

[cold_dry_pieces]

"If what?"

The shadow deepens a little and starts across the floor, towards her.

[cry-reaper.livejournal.com]

With a shriek, she lashes out with the knife, swinging wildly, all her training forgotten in the haze of panic and fear that surrounds her.

[cold_dry_pieces]

There's as much resistance as one would expect flesh to have, as insubstantial as the eyes might suggest he is. And indeed, the shadow bleeds... More profusely than one might expect, from an uneven and rather shallow cut. It spills from his side, more vividly red than the waking mind could perceive, accomplished by a hoarse roar of shock and rage.

Now, when the walls are turning to mist, might be a good time to run.

[cry-reaper.livejournal.com]

Mara takes that opportunity, running as fast as she can in the opposite direction.

[cold_dry_pieces]

And, lucky her, that's all this nightmare has in store. If she stops and turns at all she'll see nothing but blood rushing after her, and growing ever more distant, the pinprick fires of a predator's eyes, until she's too far from this dream to see anything at all.