ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Fearful Thing

Vignette - Fearful Thing
Dramatis Personae Mallory
In Absentia	2013-11-04 Of dreams and nightmares
Location Dreamscape
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep. (1) Everything around Mallory was edged with the faint amber-orange glow that had defined her vision for so many years. Her eyes had never been the same, since that first, violent fire in the orchard. In the darkness of the night, the guttering outlines of objects in the room winked at her, reminding her of her ability to so completely destroy everything she valued. So fragile. So flammable. Flickering, taunting, always there. Always a reminder. In darkness, it was most noticeable, this sinister, taunting glow. It reflected in the entirely black recesses of her eyes, as if her appearance needed to be yet more monstrous. But in the light, oh, with the light, the guttering choronas vanished from the world around her. In the light, the constant reminder of her nature was expunged, even if only for a short while. She hated the darkness. But for now, the world was utter shadow, populated by the luminous outlines of unmoving things. Hope is a waking dream. (2) Groggily running a hand through her unruly black hair, Mallory fumbles for the switch on her bedside lamp, eyes shut against the impending flare of light to her sensitive eyes. The room remains dark as ever, lit only by the hazy shimmer-glow of her vision. She blinks around at the amber outlines of her room, confusion wrinkling her crimson brow. “The hell?” she grumbles flopping her head back against the cushioned headboard, sighing and glaring around the room, trying to will herself out of bed, her limbs heavy and uncoordinated with sleep. Her faculty dormitory, modestly sized sleeping quarters, the flat surfaces of the room strewn with half read novels, a stack of papers needing to be graded. A grand dresser, with inlay and fancy baubles for handles - something that had belonged to a great grandmother. Or someone equally distant and sufficiently stuffy. The four poster bed, thick, heavy posts and the obnoxiously frilled cream colored canopy she had despised as a child. It had burned so well. The old fabric catching so easily at her touch. Something doesn’t quite add up, the furnishings too ostentatious, too much like the ones that had filled her suite of rooms at the family estate. Not the clean lines that made up the furniture her small suite of rooms here. Too much frill. Too much lace. Too constricting. Too confining. A fluffy teddy bear in an turn of the century style sailor’s uniform stares back at her from atop an overly ornate dresser opposite the bed, leaned jauntily against a small lacquered jewelry box that she had not seen in years. Now outlined in the brilliant hues of dying coals. Things that had long ago vanished into hungry amber maw of a roaring fire. A fire she had set. A fire she had been. Curiously, cautiously, fingers reach out to touch the black stitching of the bear’s nose. Disbelief. A thrill of joy to have her childhood treasures back to her. Perhaps the fires, the rallies, the arrest, perhaps those were all just a bad dream. Perhaps she was home again. Perhaps. To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. (3) The field is empty, at first glance. Cold. Damp. Gone was the warmth of the mismatched room and the forgotten childhood treasures. In place of the rising swell of hope in her chest now sunk a thick, harsh sense of despair. A thick fog, like something out of a slasher film surrounded her, obscured everything from her sight, alight with flickers of dying embers. A trick of her mutated eyes, that, seeing flickers and outlines where there were none to be seen. And then, from the corner of her eyes, she could see it. Movement. Hazy, indistinct, and slow, outlines barely flickering as the shadows shifted through the fog. “Thomas?” she called, her voice hoarse from sleep, her twin’s name echoing flatly through her mindscape. The feeling of dread grew stronger. No response. Somewhere, in the pit of her stomach, a sense that the response would never come. “Faelan? Anyone?” her voice is lost in the fog, though the sound of her hoof falls echo in the empty landscape. “Aloke?” Mallory calls out again, her voice cracking with anxiety as she stumbles forward, blindly, through the fogbank. A flash in the distance brings with it a thrill of hope, as she stumbles forward, her hooves failing to find purchase on the suddenly slick surface of the ground. Her body slams to the frigid ground with a clatter, limbs sprawling clumsily as she struggles to rise again. Fingers scrabble against the smooth stone ground, catching on deep engravings in the pale white stone. Parts of names, partial dates, a kind word, a symbol. Too bright the stone to catch with the glowing embers of her sight. Too obscured by the fog to be read. No. Not fog. Smoke. No need to read to comprehend. No need to see the stones, nor the writings upon them. It was a pleasure to burn. (4) There are flames. Pain. There is pain. Blinding, seering, agonizing, like a dagger twisted in her chest, heat spreading like poison to her limbs, her mind. It clouds everything with a slowly growing warmth, blossoming like blood from a deep wound. The light of the brilliant, crackling fires warms and envelopes Mallory, drawing her out of her despair, welcoming her with open arms. It wraps around her as a cloak, protecting her, strengthening her. A hug from an old friend, long forgotten but dearly missed. The thrill of the fire overwhelms her senses. The cracking and popping of charring flesh echoes in her ears. Charred wood smoke fills her nostrils. Hot, featherlight tongues of flame lick at the roiling plasma of her body, thrills of power, ecstasy inflaming her mind. Physical pain is a mere pittance paid to the glorious revels that come with giving over to the flame, to the soaring, gleeful freedom. All encompassing, cleansing, healing fire. Memoires, pains, losses, all shall be expunged in the flames. Cleansing fire. Dark eyes, like two fiery coals amidst a roaring fire, survey the landscape. Each object in view, each minute detail, glows hungrily with a chorona of flickering light. So fragile. So flammable. So inviting. “I will bring thee to ashes upon the earth in the sight of all them that behold thee" (5). Mallory sits bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath, clawing at her chest in pain. Dark eyes wide as she surveys the room, unfamiliar surroundings taking a moment to come into focus in the dark of the early evening; soup, coughing, resting. Worry. A nervous glance to the sleeping figure beside her in bed, before she carefully extricates herself, afraid to disturb him from his rest. Picking her way through the disheveled surroundings to the small bathroom. She leans against the sink, trembling at the remembered dream, for a long moment. Looking at herself in the mirror; the deep red skin, with glistening tracks of half-dried tears moistening her cheeks; the curling, jet colored rams horns extending from her temples; the vaguely pointed teeth behind wine colored lips. And her eyes, dark as the void, glowing with the faint light of dying embers. With a shuddering breath, she gently turns the faucet on, letting it run as she watches it blankly. Water splashes onto her face, icy cold, soothing, calming. Cleansing. That which is dreamed can never be lost, can never be undreamed. (6) Quotes: 1. The Tempest, William Shakespeare; 2. Aristotle; 3. Hamlet, William Shakespeare; 4. Farenheiht 451, Ray Bradbury; 5. Ezekiel 28:18; 6. Sandman, vol. 10, Neil Gaiman