I do not own Johnny, nor Devi, nor Meat… I do own little Cassie and the un-named three year old child.

Dreams of a Madman

Darkness filled the room, slowly creeping around the edges of the couch and table, the television the only source of light remaining. Eyes eased open, slowly at first, fighting against the sharp glare of the flickering device. A groan escaped between parted lips and clenched teeth. Finally, the eyes opened completely and the man, thin and confused, sat bolt upright on the couch, his heart pounding in his chest. Nothing seemed right. The room tilted, gave way suddenly to a world of deep crimson and violet, dark and violent. Slipping carefully over the unsteady ground, the man stepped to his television, the couch fading into the distance behind him.

The light faded from the room the instant the television was switched off and the man was plunged into total darkness, too dark to even find his way back to his couch, that oh so trusty couch. The room illuminated quickly to reveal a large bed, king size, with pillows set on either side of the headboard, a side table on either end making the room perfectly symmetrical. The man turned at the slightest sound of laughter from another room. He glanced about, finding himself in a large master bedroom, with many paintings adorning the walls and floor. The bed was the only tidy thing in the room. His solace, he seemed to think. Something he could turn to, when the chaos was too much. That bed was always tidy.

He stepped cautiously out of the room, into a hall much like the room, with less paintings on the floor, but more on the walls. His feet dragged him all the way to the end of the hallway, where a set of stairs led him down into a neat kitchen, shiny, metallic, and perfectly organized. A woman sat at the table, a child at her elbow, and another sitting in a high-chair just to her right. The woman looked up as he entered the room. He remembered her, vaguely, as though from a dream. He stepped forward and the child that could walk rushed to his side.

"Daddy, I want a sammich!" The man turned and watched the child pull at his workpants. Those aren't the pants I was wearing earlier, are they? He reached down and lifted the child in his arms.

"Well, then make one," he found himself laughing. "You've made them before. Get down the peanut butter and jelly and make two, one for me too."

"No," the child squirmed in his arms. "I don't want a peanu-buttah. I want a grilled cheese!"

The man set the child down in a chair at the table. "Well, you can't very well make one of those yourself. You're only… how old now?"

"Three, Jonathon," came the woman's amused tone. "You know that. Please, I'm trying to get Cassie to eat." She returned to the child at the high-chair.

"Sure…" Jonathon nodded. He took out the pan and some bread, setting everything neatly on the counter before starting the meal. Once every item he needed was properly aligned, he began to cook a few grilled cheese sandwiches. At the same time, he put a pot of tomato soup to simmer while he cooked. He finished quickly, flipping each sandwich with an expert air, each one landing neatly on a plate. He carried a plate and a bowl of soup to the three year old, fixed a plate for his wife, and sat down with his own plate.

"Daddy?" the three year old asked suddenly. "Can I get some milk?"

"I'll get it, sweetie." Jonathon stood and walked to the fridge, his mind racing. These actions and words were all programmed into him, as if he'd been doing it for years, but this incident, this world, didn't fit for him. As he pulled the milk from the fridge, his eyes widened. He remembered immediately who the woman was. Her name was Devi. And his name was not Jonathon. He never answered to that name. His name was Johnny, or Nny for close friends, which he had few of. He stopped, glass milk jar in hand, and turned to look at Devi with a concentrated stare. A second passed, then his knees grew weak, his head pounded in pain, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed, glass shattering everywhere and Devi shrieking in fear as her husband plummeted to the kitchen floor in a mess of milk, glass, and slowly flowing blood.

"Nny? Nny, wake up… Get up, boy!"

Eyes fluttered open to meet a dark room, television glowing silently. The station had long since gone off the air. A disoriented man sat up on the couch, his head spinning. He reached up to his forehead, touching the scar at his temple. He closed his eyes against the television and stood, a wave of nausea sweeping over his thin frame.

"You were sleeping… again."

"Sleep," his mouth seemed full of moths. He couldn't form the word properly, or at least, he felt as though he could do no such thing. He gasped in some air and wandered to the kitchen. Opening the dilapidated fridge door, he found a plastic milk jug full of water, his only way of keeping the stuff cold, seeing as he did not own an ice tray. He pulled the jug out of the fridge, opened it, and pressed the jug to his mouth. He stopped, reconsidered, and fished around for a cup. He found one, finally, stacked with several other plastic cups, paper plates, and plastic utensils. He filled the cup with the cold water, replaced the jug in the fridge, and smiled as the cold liquid drenched his dry throat.

"I don't sleep, Meat," he muttered, his voice coming more easily now. "I can't stand this feeling… of loss, of disillusionment, of… fear, and paranoia. Am I really awake now? I never can tell… It takes hours after I've slept, for me to realize that I'm awake again."

"You need to get into better habits, Nny," the voice whispered harshly. "You aren't treating yourself right. Go. Have fun. Find a girl. Sleep normally. I know you're dreaming about her again. You miss her. You want her back. She'll never come back, so replace her."

"Shut up!" Nny flung the plastic cup across the room at the Styrofoam meat boy. "You can't tell me what to do anymore! I won't sleep! I won't 'replace her!'"

"You loved her. You wanted a normal life. Well, guess what Johnny-boy. You're not allowed to have a normal life. Didn't you know that? You'll never be normal, because you're… you."

"I don't want… normal. I detest normal. Have you seen the squalid, pathetic excuse for human beings that crawl this city alone? Well, I've been further. Remember my deprogramming? I traveled the country, and I found nothing but… them."

"So, you came back… What did you dream about?"

"A different life," Nny picked up the plastic cup and refilled it. He then went back to his couch in his dark living room. Curling up against the arm-rest, he sighed. "A perfect life, with a wife… and kids. Well, at least… It seemed perfect. It was better than this. I wasn't killing. I was cooking… Tomato soup, and grilled cheese sandwiches. It was nice. The three year old laughed when I flipped the sandwiches onto the plates." He let out a high-pitched giggle. "She called them 'sammiches.'" His eyes glazed over as he took another sip from his water.

"You liked that world? You want that to be real, obviously."

"Maybe…" Nny twitched in his seat and glared across the room at the little statue. "Oh, shut up."

End

This may continue. Depends on the responses I get from people. Let me know what you think? I know, it's slightly OOC, but any moment when Nny's not killing is difficult. I was trying to hinge on the fact that his sleep, when he has it, is so disorienting, and frightening because it's what he wants, rather than what he has and knows. Enjoyed it? Oh well… if you didn't, tell me why. I accept criticism in all forms, as long as you don't call me names.