The Nightmare's Captive
Of all the things you choose in life, you don't get to choose what your nightmares are. You don't pick them; they pick you.
-John Irving
The woman at the end of the street was avoided by all; after all, who would go near a woman with the Flare? She was past the Gone, far past, and it was obvious. Her clothes were dirty, her hair a tangled mess. Her eyes were glassy, her gaze prone to lingering in one spot far longer than normal. When she spoke, she spoke far too loudly and to people no one else saw. She laughed wildly at everything at nothing, and seemed unaffected by the hunger that clearly plagued her.
No one knew her name, nor did anyone care. She was just another victim, another Crank to avoid. No one ever looked at her and saw the person she used to be.
Some deep corner of her mind remembered, though. Some dark recess, untouched by the Flare. That part of her sobbed for the person she used to be. The woman who had a nice house with flowers by the windows and yellow curtains. The woman who had been happily married, with a beautiful son.
Sometimes, she'd catch sight of herself in broken glass or murky puddles of water, and hate what she saw. Other times, she'd pause, any lingering traces of sanity leading her to stare at her eyes- eyes just like her son's- and thank God he was a Munie. Then the sanity would slip away and the reflection would mean nothing.
In those sane moments, she'd pretend he was safe, living in a nice house with flowers and yellow curtains like he used to. She no longer knew how old he was. No longer knew how old she was. Her husband had passed away long ago- the sane part of her mind longed to follow.
Except.
Except for the lingering hope to see her son one more time, to see what kind of man he'd become. Was he a good man? Did he care about the Cranks? Was he trying to find a cure? She didn't know, but she pretended he was. It kept her going. Kept her from lingering on the alternative.
Had he lost other loved ones to the Flare? Close friends? Maybe even a special girl? Undoubtedly. She pretended he hadn't. It kept her going.
She pretended he'd never known pain, never known loss, never known fear. She pretended he was just on a vacation, and that he was safe. That she simply had the flu, and she'd recover someday. That her husband was alive, waiting at the door of her house with flowers and curtains, arms open with a smile on his face. She pretended the whole experience wasn't a horrible nightmare.
Except.
Except it was a horrible nightmare. And the sane part of her knew better, knew the truth. Knew that her son was gone. Knew that in this horrible world, he'd know agony and defeat and terror. Knew that her husband was gone, six feet under, and he was never ever coming back. Knew her son was lost to her, in a facility where she thought he'd be safe but she'd been hearing rumors and he wasn't and no matter what she heard WICKED couldn't be good.
None of it was good. No one was coming back. And in this nightmare, there was no. waking. up.
She hadn't chosen to get the Flare, the waking nightmare.
It had chosen her.