This fic is completely finished. It just happens to all be on notebook paper. And yes, it's going to be full-length.
Any character that you don't recognise from the movies is mine. The plot might tend to focus on my characters more than the nightmares at times. Forgive me? –puppy eyes-
I'll update this maybe three times a week or so.
It might really suck in the beginning; I wrote the first half a long time ago and recently picked it up again. I have no control over what past-me did. "
Disclaimer: -see three paragraphs above- Let's begin!
I'm Awake Now
I was in heaven. Everything was warm and soft and blurred, too, but not in an unpleasant way. In fact, I liked it, and the drowsy, comfortable feeling it gave me. It just reminded me that I was asleep. I moved and talked, my words going everywhere and nowhere and mattering only to me.
I never feel safer than when I'm asleep, and I'll never ask for anything more than the privilege of dreaming. I'd rather dream than live. It seems kind of pathetic but it's true. Dreams are my reality.
But sometimes when you take dreams for what's real, what's real becomes a dream. Like many avid dreamers, I confuse reality with disenchantment. If I don't get that feeling, I don't want it.
Oh, you can keep your blockbusters, your high-strung sociality, your romance novels. I'll take my dreams.
What's more than a little depressing is how much my life revolves around my dreams. I think on them all the time, I get brilliant ideas from them, and I heed their warnings. I enjoy deja-vu and finally figuring out what that one detail meant. Sometimes it is as though my dreams are a living being, showing me what it thought I needed to see. It shows a scene and asks "Does this feel right?". Sometimes it pulls off wonderful tricks—showing me what I'd known in my conscious but not in my mind. It's like a friend. Good thing to know I'm not a complete failure at making them.
I learned early that friends are dangerous. I uphold this science with the exception of one boy. We'll discuss that later.
"Sage," my mother says, "Why don't you join some clubs or get into a programme?" She pleads and sometimes I envision her on her knees, sobbing and tearing out her hair. Why, oh why, can't I have a daughter with a SOUL! If I didn't want friends, there is nothing my parents can do. If I wanted friends I could get them. But for now I have all the friends I'll ever need, written inside a dream journal.
And besides, hasn't my mother already meddled enough? So far I have seen four psychologists, none of which have given me much more than a free piece of candy. None of them have figured out 'what's wrong'. That would be because there's nothing wrong with me. But once the possibility arises that you're crazy, no one listens anymore. Suddenly they know what's good for you.
Maybe I am insane. Detached, more like it. Not on the same playing field. A blue card in a red deck. A square wheel. Take your pick; I've got more. But are not the sane and the insane equal as the sane lies dreaming?
Lies dreaming as I am right now.
In my dream I am trapped in a house—a perfectly normal, middle-class house. But as I said, I'm trapped and even the yard has security systems. I'm getting frantic now, and I am running from the beast who trapped me. I run to the basement and there's a huge pile of junk there. Right in front is something that disturbs me—a dead dog, frozen in a block of ice. I stop dead and stare at it. Suddenly the beast catches me with a huge, clawed paw and I—
"Oh, gods," I murmured, sitting up in bed. My room was lit brightly by the rising sun and I groaned. Sunlight bothers me. It puts me in a bad mood, no matter how many feel-good vitamins they say are in it. I love nighttime and sunsets but afternoon to me seems like the perfect time to go to sleep, unless it's raining. My parents never understood that. They looked at the blanket I'd thrown over my window and say dumb things like "You're not a vampire."
My dream was pretty stressful, though. Recently it seemed like all my dreams were stressful. It was obviously "kill Sage" week in dreamworld.
The thing that bothered me was the dead dog. I hate dead animals. I shuddered, turning over to find my dream journal. Roadkill I can handle, as well as anything freshly dead. It's the burying part I hate. Something about it...it's like a goodbye that's way too serious. You can never see them again, whether human or animal. Maybe it was that I had, myself, buried four precious animals of mine. Mice, they were. After the fourth I was too traumatised to get another. I used to get an urge to tear open the ground and look upon them, just so I could see them again.
Fitfully I managed to fall asleep again, down down down into dreamland.
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Obviously the next chapter won't be so self-centred. In the next chapter we introduce the other main character and complete the set.
What you should know now is that this is all being written by Sage; she's recording it all. So if the tenses seem mixed up, hopefully the above statement will allow it to make some sense.
Thanks for reading!