There's a funny difference in men who're about to die, and know it, and then those who don't. There's an even harsher difference between those who know they're dying, but also the fact that they're the cause of it. Knowing that each and every second as the end draws closer, as excuses and attempts at reconciliation grow weaker and weaker, that they're the ones to blame.
"Just a little more time-!"
Emile shuddered in his bed, his mouth clenched tight as to keep the scream in. He wasn't one to have nightmares often. When they did come though, the next day there was always something about him that was a little bit off; as if he knew that something was brewing on the horizon.
He stared at his ceiling, and blinked, chest rising and following as he tried to purge the demons from his mind. The blanket, a patchwork quilt with swirls of red and violet amongst the browns and blacks – little treasures his mom had managed to piece together out of nothing – rustled as he turned on his side, all angles and eyes as big as saucers. The boy was going to be tall one day, his mom'd said so; but for now he had to suffice with gangly limbs and disproportioned features, all hidden under a mop of black curls.
After a few more restless moments, eyes shut too tight for their own good alongside clenched teeth, Emile forced himself out of bed, the floor creaking ever-so-slightly under his weight as he walked down the hall. His voice was quiet, his quilt wrapped around him entirely, head barely peeking out from under its covers.
"-Mama…" Softly. The voice of a scared little boy, just barely louder than the noise of breathing, coming from a gap-toothed frown. "-Mama…?"
Her snoring was good enough evidence for him that she was sound asleep. Didn't seem worth the tongue-lashing he'd get to wake her, but he didn't know if he'd be able to get back to sleep. Not now. Not with the Technicolor nightmare still playing in his head, over and over, his heart thudding in his chest with every reimagining of it. It seemed to grow worse and worse with every mental replay, the poor man struggling as he was dragged, all of those scary demons and what-have-you.
Emile sat on the floor, and wrapped his blanket tighter around him, looking up at where his mother was sleeping, and still weighing the options in his mind. He couldn't just go back to sleep, because of all of those shadows and monsters, no… He pursed his lips for a second, cogs turning in the deep of his mind to the rhythm of his mother's delicate snores.
"They only was scary 'cause they were hurting that man." He muttered, looking from the ceiling, back to his mother. "-But they ain't done nothing to me, have they?" All the swirls, and the excitement of the dream, all the thrill of watching. As scary as the monsters were, they were perhaps the neatest thing he'd seen in a good while. Not as though much exciting happened to him so colorful, so magical. Suddenly his head was bursting with all the possibilities. After all, they weren't necessarily bad. Just getting at the man for what he'd done.
Childish logic soon filled in the rest of the holes of the dream. The frightening became the exciting.
That man got his because he'd done something stupid. Emile could tell. He was making excuses, stammering, doing all the things Emile himself recognized from whenever he broke something, or otherwise messed up. Emile knew he, himself wasn't stupid. In fact, he'd say that he was the smartest boy alive, even without book-training.
Which meant those monsters couldn't hurt him, not unless he did something wrong, no sir. A grin, a smirk of the questionable intent of boyhood curled from ear to ear, snuck over his face, hidden in the dark except for the white of his broken smile, until he had completely coiled into a little ball of quilt and floorboards, feeling warm from head to toe.
Oh the things those creatures could be good for – scary always got the job done – and it seemed even more that Emile was wishing he could see 'em himself again. His eyes were forced as tight as they could be, but not because he was scared anymore. On the contrary, he wanted to dream again. He wanted to see that fantasia of specters; he wanted to get to know them a little better.
At last sleep came, draping over the blanket cocoon on the wooden floor, hitting him hard and fast and melting his detailed imaginings down into a swirl of thick and heavy color. Eyelids folding over, his head resting on his arm in a funny angle, Emile yawned and couldn't help but think one last time about his peculiar midnight visitors.
Y'know, maybe one day we might be friends.
There was a yawn, and he was fast asleep, curled up next to his mother's bed, dreaming of the nightmares once more.