Quote:
Late one night, you find yourself in a fairly under populated area of town. You’ve been strangely alone for the past few moments when you see movement out of the corner of your eye. Only a few yards away you see a young woman with tear-stained cheeks and a long white gown. It is difficult to make out any more details; she seems to be running from something. She looks like she is screaming but makes no sound; even her footsteps seem to be silent. If you try to chase her, you will wind up in a dead end—alone, and suddenly, cold. It feels like something has slammed into you and turned your blood to ice, but there’s no one around. No matter what you do, the chill remains until morning—but the image of the woman’s fear-filled face may haunt your dreams for much longer.
Dreams were never just dreams, that was something you just knew as a senshi. Dreams were magic as anything else, not safe, not sacred, and certainly not welcoming for trauma influenced youths with inferiority complexes, strife with survivor’s guilt, and riddled with a self loathing that would make any child psychiatrist wonder who had harmed this poor child and why did no one get her on some kind of therapy sooner? Dreams were for Mordred, a place that was and always had been unsafe, ever since her parent’s death. They were nightmares, dreams, a state of mind in her sleep that were one in the same. After all, it was hard to say there was a difference when one dream of her brutally murdering negaverse officers just like her father and mother had been were of more comfort than the so called nightmare of being chased down by a man with a demon’s smile and a large scythe.
That in itself signaled how ******** up she was, Mordred figured. She was broken she said, mentally disfigured and twisted to a point where she was unfit for most of society. Dreaming, at least there no one else could judge her, look at her broken state and known the depth of her own hate and loathing and fear. Fear that ran in her veins and torment her both in her rest and in waking hours.
Yet as of late her dreaming took her down the same road. Each night she resisted the urge, the need, the desire and drive to sleep. Closing her eyes was a fight with her body’s own needs and demands, one she lost eventually, (or the hospital staff chose to cheat and betray her with). Asleep, the street was strange with it’s white lighting, unlike the yellow of reality. The road seemed to be sloped upward and inward, a U shape rather the that tiny tilt that was made for cars to direct water off the roadways and give tires a grip for traction.
The road always also had the same thing. A woman, running from her, in fear. Dressed in white she’d run, and for some reason, Spacewatch, unharmed, no broken leg, would follow, a short while wanting to help maybe, the look of pure fear on her face was so much like her own, so painfully like how she’d felt. But each time in the dream, the woman would vanish into the fine fog and mist and Spacewatch would be left alone in the cold. Oppresive, the darkness would creep into the world, fog thickening, cold seeping down deep into her bones. Then pain- all over, like the fog was choking her with cold and fear and something else. It made her shudder and when she woke that feeling remained. A few times the nurses had come in, worried over her heart rate but after the fourth night, they stayed just outside her door.
They knew Mordred would scream and chase them out with thrown objects if they tried to comfort her.
How could they? She was the woman. And there was just no escape from fear in the end.
