peccadillo: (♦ h e s i t a t e d)
SEPTEMBER. ([personal profile] peccadillo) wrote in [community profile] ataraxionlogs2013-01-20 06:20 pm

Rᴇʟᴀx Mʏ Bᴇʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ [OPEN DREAM LOG 2]

CHARACTERS: September & you.
LOCATION: Everywhere & nowhere. You're dreaming.
WARNINGS: Possibility of horror-themes; nightmares are a bitch.
SUMMARY: September is just a Dream Eater and you are a dreamer.
NOTES: This can span over the entirety of a week. Check here for power/Dream Eater specifications & here for permissions post if you haven't looked already. Thanks!

[ You are dreaming.

Whether you know it or not, you're dreaming. Every bit of this landscape is illuminated by you. Whether it be your fears, inspirations, or memories mashed into one palette, it's all you.  The cracks and slips are weaved by your fingers, being the smear of paint you imprint on that blank surface.  A piece of art this tummy-rumbly individual is snatching up. Oh, bother.

This face is part of it. Who is he to you? A friend? A brother? A long-forgotten acquaintance?

Just don't forget that it's a dream. It's all just a dream.
]

( ooc: If you're having trouble, think of Paprika. If you don't know Paprika, watch it think of Inception without the idea-planting. If you don't know Inception, you're Hannah hit me up on Plurk! You can be as creative as you want! )
circumitus: Completely decimated and my hand was all bloody and covered with glass. Weird dude, never saw him again ever since. (got into a bar fight last night)

hope prose is fine

[personal profile] circumitus 2013-01-22 07:19 am (UTC)(link)
When she dreams, she remembers. When she remembers, it may as well have been a nightmare. These aren't good memories, as they rarely ever are.

Nearly one hundred years expand on the landscape of cerebral trauma. One hundred years of being burned and shot and stabbed and hurled into holes and stuffed into a morgue for almost two decades that one time.

Only now it isn't the morgue. She is curled up over a bathroom floor, cold and shivering. She isn't herself, it feels like. She's so little.

This can't her memory. She has never been this small, never had a childhood, never had anything.

Yet somehow she remembers the strange aftertaste of her father's soup from earlier. The way the pulps squeaked in her mouth when she chewed and swallowed and it tasted wrong. She said she wasn't feeling well, that she had to use the toilet, and her father had readily dismissed her.

Everything in the room distorts and blurs now. She's been drugged.

The bathroom door opens, and a man dressed in white appears.

"Dad!" The sound of her own voice is an echo, nothing more, because it's not her own voice that comes out.

"I'm sorry, Charlotte. It's time to go."

What.

He's grabbing her by the throat, throwing her up off the ground. He is her father, but she is not Rey. He does not seem to hear her cries when he takes the back of her neck and forces her face-first into the full basin.

It's a futile struggle. He is an adult, easily overpowering the feeble strength of a child. She can't hear him; she can't hear much of anything except for his choked sobs as he holds her under. Her pathetic flails turn into oxygen-deprived spasms as the ripples and blue turn to black. In the end, it's all she sees.

The little girl flops lifelessly to the floor of that bathroom. Then there is Rey, curled up in the corner of the bathroom the entire time, who watches no longer from the perspective of the little girl named Charlotte.

Her father isn't here. She doesn't know who is here. But the girl still is. Charlotte is, face to the ground with water pooling all around her. She's drowned, and she's been that way for a very long time. Her skin is blue and she smells rotted.

"What a mess..." Rey mutters to herself as she observes the old, chipped bathroom and she remembers this place now. This bathroom, this cottage is part of an old Irish village she's been to before. Those are her memories. They belong to her. That girl is part of her father's...

It's such a mess.
circumitus: Insert Warmer song lyrics here. (oh no those were clinic-appropriate!)

[personal profile] circumitus 2013-02-12 10:23 am (UTC)(link)
It's not the first time she has felt her mind being invaded. She's experienced it before, her eyes veering to face the intruder.

He says, I don't understand. It's nothing like the omniscient force that haunts her head that she is often accompanied by in sleep. This is something else. She doesn't know what it is.

"Dream therapy." The word comes out and she hears her father's voice echoing in her head. You were always receptive to it. "It's how I remember things -- and it's how some people talk to me."

Is this man one of those people?

No, he isn't one of the blank-faced men in all white she knew from before, the ones who had helped to conceive and assemble her.

She's shaking, still choking on the water that rises from the back of her throat. She coughs, and hurls it onto the cold floor -- a nice puddle of it.

How attractive.
circumitus: Captain Morgan didnt let me down when i stand up it feels like the world is trying to hand me rainbows. (i hate your face)

[personal profile] circumitus 2013-02-17 12:52 pm (UTC)(link)
"I know what you're not." Her eyes narrow. "My father -- you're not Lucas. He's the only one that can do this."

That she's aware of. Right now she's not so sure, because this feels like the same dream therapy he utilized to pacify her maddening outbursts over the course of four years.

Other than that, she can't bring herself to make any wild guesses.

Rey's imagination doesn't stretch very far...
circumitus: Completely decimated and my hand was all bloody and covered with glass. Weird dude, never saw him again ever since. (got into a bar fight last night)

[personal profile] circumitus 2013-02-22 07:29 pm (UTC)(link)
She starts to nod, but feels queasy all over again. There is still a black dribble running down the side of her mouth that she makes the effort of wiping with the back of her hand.

She looks to the basin, now half-full with the same dark, grungy fluid, and then back to the other.

This is a dream, she does indeed know this. She knows because this isn't a memory that she dreams about.

"Should I be? Being invaded is nothing new to me, I suppose." And privacy? It's practically an alien concept.
circumitus: 10 stitches. scar on forehead. totally going tell ppl my parents died fighting Voldemort. (fell off bed. face first.)

it's good! i am being kind of slow myself, anyway

[personal profile] circumitus 2013-03-09 09:55 pm (UTC)(link)
"Everyone wants to know something. I can relate, in a way."

Wanting to know. That need for knowledge. Even if her own curiosity and need to know is going to be the end of her -- she knows it, and wants it anyway.

When he offers to make her forget, she clamps her hand over her mouth. Finally the fits have stopped, but she still feels sick. This is supposed to be a dream, but it's also a bad experience altogether. And here he is offering to take it away.

In spite of this, she shakes her head. "You wouldn't be the first to try -- to make me forget. You can't erase it. Someday it'll come back. It always does." She coughs.