Okay, this is part of a story I thought up that I am probably never going
to finish, but this bit was good enough that I couldn't resist writing it
out. The premise behind this whole story is; what if Freddy met a lucid
dreamer? A lucid dreamer is somebody who KNOWS when they're dreaming, and
can control their dreams. Freddy can only hurt people if they're afraid of
him, so if someone can control their dreams and, say, turn Freddy's
stabbing claws into four wilting flowers, or turn a falling ton of brick
into a large chocolate cake, or simply fly out of harm's way while taunting
him, they can't be hurt and Freddy would probably be very annoyed. This
particular scene takes place when Fred's just come up with a new idea for
how this particular girl (I decided the dreamer was a girl but I didn't
think of a name yet) can be defeated. In a world that she controlled, what
fears would she have no control over? It's fun! Read!
-- ~ --
The man suddenly lunged at the girl, digging his knife deep inside her brain.
The girl started back. "Hey, what-"
But the man was already speeding down his blade, his finger, into her head. There was a flash, then a darkness.
The doors opened. The girl's bored, monotonic voice said, "Third floor: Ego, linguistics, information exchange, and fine motor skills."
The man started. He was in an elevator along with a group of others, all copies of the girl in various outfits, all filing out into a huge, crowded, chaotic building. The ceiling disappeared up into clouds, there were escalators lifting lines of girl-clones up into doors of nothingness where they disappeared, there were desks in endless lines with tireless copies working behind them, there were tube-trains (emblazoned with the words "Thesis Center Express") bringing girls from the room to other places. Everything had a soft, gray, pulsing feel, as if it were made of something more organic than stone.
The man gave this all a glance, and a low, sarcastic whistle. Then he turned to the last person remaining in the elevator; the girl wearing an elevator operator's gold-trimmed blue uniform and a bored expression.
"Which way will it be, sir? Up or down?"
The man grinned, a horrific sight, though the girl showed no change in expression.
"Down! Lowest level!"
As the girl turned to push the buttons, he smirked to himself.
"Fears never go up."
He began to turn to the elevator operator as the doors closed, grinning and flexing his blades in anticipation...
The doors opened again. The man had a slightly miffed and put-out look, as if a game he loved playing hadn't worked the way it was supposed to. The elevator operator calmly stood beside him, large gaping bloody slashes through her abdomen and chest, with a bit of intestine hanging out. Showing no change in expression, she monotonically announced
"Basement level: Id, sex drive, repressed guilt, phobias, assorted neuroses, and uncontrollable creative impulses."
The man's miffed expression gave way to a small smirk at the announcement, and he stepped out.
"Thank you for visiting the Multithesis and enjoy your stay."
The doors slid closed behind him. He spoke quietly to himself.
"The Multithesis, huh?"
Then he gave a flippant shrug and ambled off down the corridor. The walls here still had the same organic feel, but that was where the similarity ended. There was just one low hallway, dark and lined with slightly pulsing, dripping pipes and thick iron doors with heavily grilled windows and nearly unreadable metal labels. His smirk widened.
"Feels just like home."
He paused by the first door and wiped grime off the heavily engraved label, reading it. "Repressed guilt." He put a half-melted ear to the door.
"ThatwassoSTUPIDwhy'dyousaythatrememberthetic- tacinIan'sfoodIDIDN'TLIKETHEPRESENTWAAAAAHIcan'tbelieveIdidthatIdidn'twashth edishestodayIreallyshouldbestudyingIreadmysister'sjournalIforgottofeedthedo- "
He pulled his ear away, giving the door a confused and slightly disgusted look.
"The fuck-?"
He shook his head and continued to saunter down the hallway, reading each door's label as he went past. Artistic urges, chocolate cravings, muscle twitches, survival instincts...Finally, he came to a door, thicker than the others, covered in chains, spiked bars, and heavy, sloppy welding. The grime was caked on the engraving inches thick, but after it had been chipped off read, "ID CENTRAL."
The man sliced through the chains cleanly and kicked open the door. It led to a small, low, misshapen room. The pipes were everywhere now, and great puddles of oil on the floor. Small, crooked doors were set into the walls, and sickly orange light filtered down from holes between the pipes in the ceiling. The man smirked and muttered to himself, "Everyone has a boiler room."
He ambled past the doors, reading the labels. Drives...wants...needs.......fears. He stopped. This door was twisted and turned in on itself, covered in spikes and oil. Perfect. The man grinned and pulled it open, stepping in.
Inside was a surprisingly clean gray room, with what appeared to be paintings hanging on the walls. The paintings each had a subtle spotlight on them, and an inconspicuous engraved gold label beneath them. It was a scene that would have looked quite at home in a metropolitan art gallery. The man went to the first.
The label said, in small capital letters "CLAUSTRIPHOBIA." In the picture, a young version of the girl, only seven or so, was stuck headfirst into a tunnel made of ice on a snowy playground. She was all alone, and if you looked closely at the picture, you could see her struggling and faintly hear her screaming for help. The man smirked widely, saying in a pleased voice, "So that's why the bitch freaked out the first time I sucked her down a tunnel."
Then his smirk faded. As entertaining as that had been, she had still overcome it. He needed a fear he hadn't tried yet. He went to the next painting. The label read "Aichmophobia" and showed a montage of pictures of the girl jerking or pulling away from needles, claws, teeth, anything pointed and painful-looking. He snorted. He'd tried THAT before...
Next one: Amaxophobia. The girl trying to jump out of a moving car sliding on ice, fear etched on every feature. Perhaps, but she'd probably just fly away if he tried it.
Next: Bogyphobia. A small version of the girl curled up on her bed, clutching a teddy bear for dear life, covers wrapped tight around her, eyes bolted open and darting around the room. The man smirked and tipped his hat at the picture, although it offered no useful suggestions.
Next: Phonophobia. A teenage girl staring at a ringing phone, an expression of dread on her face. Somehow, the man didn't think that would cut it.
Next: Thanatophobia. A very young version of the girl, only three or so, sitting on a stool in a friendly-looking room, staring through a plant with an expression of utmost horror. Reflected in her wide-open eyes were small skulls. The man snorted. Everyone was afraid of THAT.
Next: Obesophobia. A late-teenage girl standing naked in front of a mirror, a much fatter version of her standing reflected in it. Hmm..now that was a new one. The man made a mental note of it and moved on.
Next: Amnesiphobia. A completely blank canvas. No, not just blank. Nothingness. A void. It seemed to suck in the air around it. The man's eyes narrowed. Interesting....
Next: A large picture, nearly taking up one-fourth of the wall. The man had been saving it for last, going through the smaller, less important-looking pictures first before coming to this one. It showed the girl, haggard and trembling, wearing a dirty white shift in a white room clutching her head. Faint voices came out of the painting. The small label read "Dementophobia."
The man stopped and looked at the trembling girl for a few moments, a pleased calculating look on his face. Then he stepped forward and through the painting. Immediately, the voices became ten times louder, and small flashes of dancing color, scraping claws, exploding limbs, and bulging walls seemed to be filling the corners of his vision everywhere he looked. Unheeded tears ran down the girl's staring face, fingers tangled in her hair, head twitching in time with the voices.
"WhoareyoufallpullreachglideKILLHIMKIareyouliftonlyareyouwhatamILISTENgonnag etchaRIPITtaketaketakewhistleonlyit'sgoneliftitliftitwannateargonnakillwatch itfalliridescenteyesoftheseagullcriescriescriesdespiseONLYareyoumeareyouwhat areyoulifepullliftreachdancingdancing..."
The man circled the shaking girl, grinning widely and cutting through the hallucinatiatory visions around his feet with ease. At one point he poked her forehead with a blade. Immediately, the twitching worsened, one of the girl's arms beginning to shake uncontrollably. Her eyes stayed staring straight ahead, and she uttered a few scraps of mumbled nonsense. Chuckling, he knelt down behind her, putting a hand on either shoulder. Clawed blades puckered the thin fabric across her chest, and he put his deformed mouth next to her ear.
"Gotcha, bitch."
Then the man was speeding up his blade, his finger, out again. There was a flash, then darkness.
-are you doing?"
The girl's confused voice cut through the air as she stepped back, rubbing the side of her head with an annoyed expression. The man faced her, his grin undiminished. This was gonna be fun.
-- ~ --
Hee. If you can't tell, the girl has more hidden in her psyche and past than just lucid dreaming. I had fun making her. ^_^ Hey, maybe I'll use her in another story! If you were wondering, the top level would've been "Superego, conscience, higher mental functions, and tongue twisters."
-- ~ --
The man suddenly lunged at the girl, digging his knife deep inside her brain.
The girl started back. "Hey, what-"
But the man was already speeding down his blade, his finger, into her head. There was a flash, then a darkness.
The doors opened. The girl's bored, monotonic voice said, "Third floor: Ego, linguistics, information exchange, and fine motor skills."
The man started. He was in an elevator along with a group of others, all copies of the girl in various outfits, all filing out into a huge, crowded, chaotic building. The ceiling disappeared up into clouds, there were escalators lifting lines of girl-clones up into doors of nothingness where they disappeared, there were desks in endless lines with tireless copies working behind them, there were tube-trains (emblazoned with the words "Thesis Center Express") bringing girls from the room to other places. Everything had a soft, gray, pulsing feel, as if it were made of something more organic than stone.
The man gave this all a glance, and a low, sarcastic whistle. Then he turned to the last person remaining in the elevator; the girl wearing an elevator operator's gold-trimmed blue uniform and a bored expression.
"Which way will it be, sir? Up or down?"
The man grinned, a horrific sight, though the girl showed no change in expression.
"Down! Lowest level!"
As the girl turned to push the buttons, he smirked to himself.
"Fears never go up."
He began to turn to the elevator operator as the doors closed, grinning and flexing his blades in anticipation...
The doors opened again. The man had a slightly miffed and put-out look, as if a game he loved playing hadn't worked the way it was supposed to. The elevator operator calmly stood beside him, large gaping bloody slashes through her abdomen and chest, with a bit of intestine hanging out. Showing no change in expression, she monotonically announced
"Basement level: Id, sex drive, repressed guilt, phobias, assorted neuroses, and uncontrollable creative impulses."
The man's miffed expression gave way to a small smirk at the announcement, and he stepped out.
"Thank you for visiting the Multithesis and enjoy your stay."
The doors slid closed behind him. He spoke quietly to himself.
"The Multithesis, huh?"
Then he gave a flippant shrug and ambled off down the corridor. The walls here still had the same organic feel, but that was where the similarity ended. There was just one low hallway, dark and lined with slightly pulsing, dripping pipes and thick iron doors with heavily grilled windows and nearly unreadable metal labels. His smirk widened.
"Feels just like home."
He paused by the first door and wiped grime off the heavily engraved label, reading it. "Repressed guilt." He put a half-melted ear to the door.
"ThatwassoSTUPIDwhy'dyousaythatrememberthetic- tacinIan'sfoodIDIDN'TLIKETHEPRESENTWAAAAAHIcan'tbelieveIdidthatIdidn'twashth edishestodayIreallyshouldbestudyingIreadmysister'sjournalIforgottofeedthedo- "
He pulled his ear away, giving the door a confused and slightly disgusted look.
"The fuck-?"
He shook his head and continued to saunter down the hallway, reading each door's label as he went past. Artistic urges, chocolate cravings, muscle twitches, survival instincts...Finally, he came to a door, thicker than the others, covered in chains, spiked bars, and heavy, sloppy welding. The grime was caked on the engraving inches thick, but after it had been chipped off read, "ID CENTRAL."
The man sliced through the chains cleanly and kicked open the door. It led to a small, low, misshapen room. The pipes were everywhere now, and great puddles of oil on the floor. Small, crooked doors were set into the walls, and sickly orange light filtered down from holes between the pipes in the ceiling. The man smirked and muttered to himself, "Everyone has a boiler room."
He ambled past the doors, reading the labels. Drives...wants...needs.......fears. He stopped. This door was twisted and turned in on itself, covered in spikes and oil. Perfect. The man grinned and pulled it open, stepping in.
Inside was a surprisingly clean gray room, with what appeared to be paintings hanging on the walls. The paintings each had a subtle spotlight on them, and an inconspicuous engraved gold label beneath them. It was a scene that would have looked quite at home in a metropolitan art gallery. The man went to the first.
The label said, in small capital letters "CLAUSTRIPHOBIA." In the picture, a young version of the girl, only seven or so, was stuck headfirst into a tunnel made of ice on a snowy playground. She was all alone, and if you looked closely at the picture, you could see her struggling and faintly hear her screaming for help. The man smirked widely, saying in a pleased voice, "So that's why the bitch freaked out the first time I sucked her down a tunnel."
Then his smirk faded. As entertaining as that had been, she had still overcome it. He needed a fear he hadn't tried yet. He went to the next painting. The label read "Aichmophobia" and showed a montage of pictures of the girl jerking or pulling away from needles, claws, teeth, anything pointed and painful-looking. He snorted. He'd tried THAT before...
Next one: Amaxophobia. The girl trying to jump out of a moving car sliding on ice, fear etched on every feature. Perhaps, but she'd probably just fly away if he tried it.
Next: Bogyphobia. A small version of the girl curled up on her bed, clutching a teddy bear for dear life, covers wrapped tight around her, eyes bolted open and darting around the room. The man smirked and tipped his hat at the picture, although it offered no useful suggestions.
Next: Phonophobia. A teenage girl staring at a ringing phone, an expression of dread on her face. Somehow, the man didn't think that would cut it.
Next: Thanatophobia. A very young version of the girl, only three or so, sitting on a stool in a friendly-looking room, staring through a plant with an expression of utmost horror. Reflected in her wide-open eyes were small skulls. The man snorted. Everyone was afraid of THAT.
Next: Obesophobia. A late-teenage girl standing naked in front of a mirror, a much fatter version of her standing reflected in it. Hmm..now that was a new one. The man made a mental note of it and moved on.
Next: Amnesiphobia. A completely blank canvas. No, not just blank. Nothingness. A void. It seemed to suck in the air around it. The man's eyes narrowed. Interesting....
Next: A large picture, nearly taking up one-fourth of the wall. The man had been saving it for last, going through the smaller, less important-looking pictures first before coming to this one. It showed the girl, haggard and trembling, wearing a dirty white shift in a white room clutching her head. Faint voices came out of the painting. The small label read "Dementophobia."
The man stopped and looked at the trembling girl for a few moments, a pleased calculating look on his face. Then he stepped forward and through the painting. Immediately, the voices became ten times louder, and small flashes of dancing color, scraping claws, exploding limbs, and bulging walls seemed to be filling the corners of his vision everywhere he looked. Unheeded tears ran down the girl's staring face, fingers tangled in her hair, head twitching in time with the voices.
"WhoareyoufallpullreachglideKILLHIMKIareyouliftonlyareyouwhatamILISTENgonnag etchaRIPITtaketaketakewhistleonlyit'sgoneliftitliftitwannateargonnakillwatch itfalliridescenteyesoftheseagullcriescriescriesdespiseONLYareyoumeareyouwhat areyoulifepullliftreachdancingdancing..."
The man circled the shaking girl, grinning widely and cutting through the hallucinatiatory visions around his feet with ease. At one point he poked her forehead with a blade. Immediately, the twitching worsened, one of the girl's arms beginning to shake uncontrollably. Her eyes stayed staring straight ahead, and she uttered a few scraps of mumbled nonsense. Chuckling, he knelt down behind her, putting a hand on either shoulder. Clawed blades puckered the thin fabric across her chest, and he put his deformed mouth next to her ear.
"Gotcha, bitch."
Then the man was speeding up his blade, his finger, out again. There was a flash, then darkness.
-are you doing?"
The girl's confused voice cut through the air as she stepped back, rubbing the side of her head with an annoyed expression. The man faced her, his grin undiminished. This was gonna be fun.
-- ~ --
Hee. If you can't tell, the girl has more hidden in her psyche and past than just lucid dreaming. I had fun making her. ^_^ Hey, maybe I'll use her in another story! If you were wondering, the top level would've been "Superego, conscience, higher mental functions, and tongue twisters."