song_tra_bong: (sleeping)
The painkillers help her sleep. They also make for interesting dreams.

silent night )

She opens her eyes.
song_tra_bong: (bound and broken)
In the cells, when the trappings of Mardi Gras have faded and she is simply a prisoner again, she sleeps.

She dreams.

She is in the bar, which is strangely empty. Silent. Fog (mist) coils around her feet. She walks around tables and chairs, looking for any sign of life.

There’s no one here. She opens the door.

It’s a beach. Jack’s island? Maybe. She walks through, letting the door swing shut behind her. She heads up the beach, letting the incoming waves swallow her feet.

There’s a man, Jack—no, Raven—picking up shells and putting them in a basket. “You will not find him here,” he says. “It itches, I think.”

“How do I make it stop?” she asks.

“Scratch. Until it bleeds. Though it may not be enough, perhaps.” And then he is a bird, flying away and leaving the basket in her hands. A single black feather lies atop the shells.

She keeps walking.

She looks out to sea and there is a man, Raven again—no, Jack—swimming. He waves to her. She waves back, then slowly lowers her arm. He isn’t waving; he’s drowning. She takes a step towards him, but he disappears beneath the waves. She waits and he doesn’t return.

She keeps walking.

There are footprints on the beach that are not hers. They are not really footprints, precisely, more like paw prints. She knows where they will lead and follows them anyway.

He’s waiting for her.

“Do you know,” she asks, “that it wasn’t about him?”

“Of course,” he says. “World revolves around me.” He smiles. “You’re my creature, after all.”

She sighs in relief, smiling widely. “I knew you’d understand.” She holds out the basket as an offering. He takes it from her and she knows. There’s something wrong with his smile. It’s not enough. Dandelions for teacher; weeds, weeds only and no flowers in sight. He knows, too.

False smile. “Don’t worry. I brought you something, too. Catch.”

He tosses it to her—small, rounded, flashing in the sun. She catches it on instinct, then stares down at the cylinder in her palm. She looks up. “What is it?”

“What you deserve.”

And the world explodes in light and heat.


song_tra_bong: (Default)
Mary Anne Bell

February 2010



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