[ solo ] the wall ( thezil )

[its me debz]

You do not dream.

You have always supposed that this fact is simply a byproduct of having no head to dream with, no place for nonsense and gossamer fancies, no place for hopes to fly and then die in, never to escape the walls of sleep.

You have your theories, too, that it's because you have no heart. Unlike your missing head (a desire, a fury, a temptation, a --), there is no way to tell at just a glance.

And, unlike the missing head, you do not want it back.

Sometimes, it feels as though you were the one who pulled it free, its missing state the end result of a chest cut wide open with --, a y cut into piecemeal skin, peeled back nicely like the flesh of a fruit.

Most of the time, though, it just feels as though you're still cut wide open, carved and raw around the edges, just in a way that no one can see.

It is what aches when possessions are everywhere, cluttering up what matters. It is what bruises when the idea crosses his mind that memories aren't everything. It is what stings when he does not know, still, where his head might be. It hurts. It always does.

But, tonight, the pain has subsided. Tonight, you are in one piece, standing at the precipice of a nondescript location.  

[its me debz]

You do not dream, but this cannot be anything but.

Three hundred and sixty six days ago, you did not exist. Three hundred and sixty five days ago, you woke up in a junkyard, assembled from the limbs and parts of a dozen others, for one reason and one reason only.

Thirst.

For justice, to right the wrong done until you. For revenge, to pay it back in kind at least tenfold. For unity, which you have yet to experience. A year later and it is not slaked. A year later, you simply know better than to expect it to subside. It burns like a flame held too close, burning too big and bright for your body to contain.

(It is, wholly, too large for you. It is, wholly, nothing more than a pittance. But they're both true.)

And now you are here, dreaming of the impossible. The idea that you might have your head back is a ridiculous notion to begin with, a betrayal of the universe, of your own design. You know, in this dream, that you curse is to never find it, and to always yearn for it back. These facts are always oscillating, with your mind trapped between them. They are contradictory, but they are yours, in this empty tv head of yours.

The facts are what they are, sure. But in the land of dream, they have no sway.

So, shakily, you remove your gloves. You press bare fingers to your face, and you know it is yours by the feeling rather than the feel of the skin. But it's useless: there is no frame of reference for your mind to understand. It feels like nothing, and it is intensely unsatisfying.

A disappointment, and the clouds above you only grow, shapeless and terrible.  

[its me debz]

You are standing at the apex, trapped between what you know of as yourself and something bigger and more.

Amongst the grey and the nothing, that spins and spins above and below and through you, is the strange sensation that you might be waiting for someone.

But it passes, and so the night sky appears, rusty orange moon and all, and the place grows familiar.

This is your home now.

Of course it is.  

[its me debz]

If it's possible to feel homesick while at home, you surely do. This is still a dream, because the face that does not feel is still yours to prod at. The features are nondescript. You might look like Reese or Catinka or like nothing at all. You do not know your gender and you do not know your sex. You do not even know your species.

It is a vast nothing.

The more you try to pull and prod and inspect, the more the orange fades, until it flickers out again.

So close, and yet so far.

You will be sleeping for some time yet.  

[its me debz]

It is just a dream, just a silly little dream, and you had the chance to be happy.

But that was never good enough, was it? (Or was it just that there was never enough to be good?)

Instead, you pull and claw and down falls the flesh coloured ribbons, flaking away like old paint until there is nothing. There is not even any blood.

The pieces of you have fallen to the ground, and out of it has risen something else.

It is just a dream, just a silly little dream, but that is neither here nor there.

What is here is a Wall.  

[its me debz]

The structure of the Wall looms impossibly high above, an ominous structure that makes you feel small. The structure of the Wall crouches low, barely even a few feet, offering little protection. The Wall is an orderly pattern of brick and stone. The Wall is a random heap of debris. The Wall is still, it is just a wall. The Wall is shifting to stare down at you in silent hunger.  

[its me debz]

You wake up.