characters: fem!holland, cameroon
rating: pg-13
warning: bizarre main pairing, head canons, genderbending, human names, prejudice, and the kind of loneliness even a drink won't cure.
summary: she'd have never expected to find acquaintance in such an unfamiliar place. multi-chaptered!(?)
author's note: for mute mathematics. probably won't be a very long story...
Prologue.
pro-logue.
noun. the preface or introduction to a literary work; a speech often in verse addressed to the audience by an actor at the beginning of a play; an introductory or preceding event or development
She cannot breathe.
She can see. She can feel. But breathe, she cannot.
Her knees tremble as she watches a monochrome, shadowed figure hovering above her, and feel his hands tighten around her neck. She desperately claws at them, trying to pry his fingers away from her. She knows her attempt is vain. She knows that she is too weak and he is too strong, and so his hands remain there.
Pulses of white flash in front of her widened eyes, and she tries to scream, though the pressure placed around her neck is not helpful. Besides, there is no one around to hear her. There is never anyone around to hear her.
It takes an eternity—or a long minute—but the shadow's hands relax, and she gasps for the air that her perverse lungs lust for.
Bliss lasts only for a moment. (It always lasts for only a moment.)
The shadow disappears after plunging her into white water. An uncanny sensation of sinking washes over her, and the more she struggles, the more disoriented she witnesses herself becoming. Even if she tries to swim, she doesn't know that she's just dragging herself further down.
"But, what is there to put up a fight for?" Is the only sane thought running through her mind. But instantly, she knows her answer.
Nothing.
Her eyes flutter open as she reaches upwards, and the last beautiful sight she admires is the night sky, a blend of dark clouds and bright stars.
She fades, and everything goes black.
august, 1963
Tears and sweat dotted upon Cato's face as she frantically roused herself out of a muddled slumber. Her eyes darted around the room, her room, as her heart beat viciously against her chest, but she was alive. (She could breathe and sense and she was alive.)
She pulled herself up, her mind keeping a pace as fast as her heart, and she attempted to take comfort in the familiarity of her room. Everything was in it's place, and she felt at ease, as if there was finally something that made sense. Her eyes darted to the window, watching the curtains flutter lazily in the morning breeze. Outside, the songbirds sang, and Cato sighed.
It was all just a dream.