Fanfic: Sometimes, dreamlike (1/1)
Feb. 23rd, 2006 01:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dangermousieTitle: Sometimes, dreamlike.
A/N: This is two drabbles on memory and dreams of loss. I wanted to write them in a similar fashion, dealing with two completely different characters, but interconnected through style. It’s an experiment, if it doesn't work let me know. The first drabble is Miaka from Fushigi Yuugi (sometime right before the end of ep 52) and the second is Aya from Ayashi No Ceres (in the first few eps).
I.
Sometimes, when she is asleep, she can feel phantom hands holding her own. When she opens her eyes, at the precise moment between waking and sleeping, she can almost imagine it is real.
She realizes the inevitability of loss as her memories fade day by day, slip like water through her grasping fingers. The most important and vivid things of the past become shapeless, dreamlike: an outline of a kiss, a shadow of an embrace, a whisper of a laugh.
All the moments he touched her. She likes to hold them separate, encapsulated in her memory, in her eyes, in her skin. But his invisible imprints begin to slough off under the onslaught of real, and she tries to hold on to them though she knows it's futile. The tilt of his head, the warmth of his body, the shape of his smile. She stores them gingerly, carefully, to be taken out on rare occasions, not to be worn out through too much use. She will see him again. She knows it. Then she believes. Then she wonders. She isn’t sure what the next stage of certainty would be and doesn’t really want to find out.
She will see him again. She will. Won’t she? Will she?
II.
Aya is not afraid. She is not afraid to stay in the strange house, with the mattress unfamiliar and the pillow the wrong shape.
She is not afraid to go to sleep and see her mother, circling in endless patterns with the butcher knife, or her father, his blood snaking itself through her dreams. There are nights where she sees her grandfather's face rearranged like a puzzle into features unfamiliar and terrifying, a papery breath repeating “my foolish son” and the glint of her father’s eye glasses, sticky red. Sometimes, her brother is bleeding in her arms and the impassive faces of the family stare, unwilling to help or to look away. A familiar nightmare, no less dreamlike for being real.
Aya is not afraid of dreaming as she conquers that fear night after night. But sometimes, just sometimes when the sleep is dreamless and deep, Aya is afraid of waking up.
A/N: This is two drabbles on memory and dreams of loss. I wanted to write them in a similar fashion, dealing with two completely different characters, but interconnected through style. It’s an experiment, if it doesn't work let me know. The first drabble is Miaka from Fushigi Yuugi (sometime right before the end of ep 52) and the second is Aya from Ayashi No Ceres (in the first few eps).
I.
Sometimes, when she is asleep, she can feel phantom hands holding her own. When she opens her eyes, at the precise moment between waking and sleeping, she can almost imagine it is real.
She realizes the inevitability of loss as her memories fade day by day, slip like water through her grasping fingers. The most important and vivid things of the past become shapeless, dreamlike: an outline of a kiss, a shadow of an embrace, a whisper of a laugh.
All the moments he touched her. She likes to hold them separate, encapsulated in her memory, in her eyes, in her skin. But his invisible imprints begin to slough off under the onslaught of real, and she tries to hold on to them though she knows it's futile. The tilt of his head, the warmth of his body, the shape of his smile. She stores them gingerly, carefully, to be taken out on rare occasions, not to be worn out through too much use. She will see him again. She knows it. Then she believes. Then she wonders. She isn’t sure what the next stage of certainty would be and doesn’t really want to find out.
She will see him again. She will. Won’t she? Will she?
II.
Aya is not afraid. She is not afraid to stay in the strange house, with the mattress unfamiliar and the pillow the wrong shape.
She is not afraid to go to sleep and see her mother, circling in endless patterns with the butcher knife, or her father, his blood snaking itself through her dreams. There are nights where she sees her grandfather's face rearranged like a puzzle into features unfamiliar and terrifying, a papery breath repeating “my foolish son” and the glint of her father’s eye glasses, sticky red. Sometimes, her brother is bleeding in her arms and the impassive faces of the family stare, unwilling to help or to look away. A familiar nightmare, no less dreamlike for being real.
Aya is not afraid of dreaming as she conquers that fear night after night. But sometimes, just sometimes when the sleep is dreamless and deep, Aya is afraid of waking up.
