once upon a dream
. . .
"And if I cry two tears for her that will be the most that I would give to her. She left me stranded in my nightmares, taking pictures of my memories. She's right there-twisting on the blade in my heart."
. . .
There's a strange and vast oddity to sleeping.
It's strange magic at work, and even the genius Armin Arlert is not immune to it. He can't ignore his subconscious, nor can he go days on end without sleeping. Sleep is needed, despite how he loathes it. He doesn't like being forced into accepting the truth, accepting the reality, but his night terrors make everything too real. He's lulled to sleep with the slow breaths of his comrades, the crinkling sounds as someone shifts on their bunk. Sleep is their escape. Sleep is Armin's hell. He listens to the shuffling until a dark water engulfs him whole.
He's had this dream many times before. Too many times.
She's beautiful, he thinks. He's never seen someone more radiant than her. Dangerous, course, forbidden, tainted- but beautiful. There's something appealing to someone so untouchable. Her appearance differs from his thoughts, but he doesn't notice. She's perfect in spite of the tangled knots in her hair. She's perfect in spite of the thin curves of her cheeks retracting. Her ugliness makes her real, makes her perfection, because horror is the reality. Deadly. She's lethal. No fear pings in his chest, however, only encouragement and curiosity. Her eyes are blank and wide, pulled back by pink flesh that entraps her entire body. She hangs limp from the ceiling, arms getting tugged backwards. Her blonde hair is thin and short, in a flurry of frizz and blood. He tries to smile up at her from his position on the floor, tries to produce some sort of comfort, -any kind- because the fear in her eyes is undeniable. There's a dim fog covering her expression, like she's already given up entirely. But he's weak. He's so goddamn weak, too weak to save her. All he conjures up with is a mixture of a grimace and a sob. Desperation fills his body as she's yanked further upward, the space between them lengthening.
He feels sympathy- though something tells him not to- and the frustration and despair builds and builds within him like a dam threatening to break.
He opens his mouth to cry out to her. To yell a name that is poison on his lips, a name that should never be spoken aloud. Her name burns his tongue, his mouth, his very being, and it feels like the acid of her idea spills down his throat and engulfs him whole. His dream thinks so too, and her name is morphed into a gag as blood pools from his mouth. He chokes as the liquid burns over his teeth and cheeks, splattering onto the ground. The candles around him, the only source of lighting, sizzle as they're extinguished. The lack of light illuminates her thin face, and although he can't see her up close, he's sure that the clean streaks (differing from the dirt and blood) is from tear tracks.
He screams her name, or attempts to.
More blood.
Again and again, over and over. He can't reach her, he'll never reach her- his breathing quickens, chest shaking with anguish.
She's screaming, too, only successfully. It's high pitched and deafening, and his ear drums rattle. She's shrieking his name, over and over again, and he has never dreamt up a worst torture.
He rips his arm up, clawing in the air, trying to grasp her, but it's as if his body is permanently glued to the floor. Blood gurgles and splatters as he tries to whisper her name, only adding to the painful pressure on his chest. He can't breathe. Blood drips down his forehead, staining his hair. When did he get a head injury?
She stretches her arm out, screaming his name. There is no end to his suffering, and he has no one to blame but himself. Because her pain is his fault. Her agony, her entrapment, her torture, her demise. It is all his fault.
He cries harder. Now all he can see is a blanket of crimson, the blood pooling over his face.
He could've had her. He could've saved her.
If he hadn't been so foolish, she would've been in his arms right now. His duties had exceeded his selfish intentions, and now he was paying the price.
She thrashes.
He feels the ghost of her touch. Her fingertips slide over his.
Everything freezes.
Then she's pulled away, screaming his name all the way.
He screams her own, breaking through the continuous wall of blood.
It's not a dream anymore. It's his reality.
"Annie..."
A piece of Armin dies that night.