Author's Note: In response to Ash's nightmare in the tenth Pokemon movie-
I was hoping for something more nightmarish, like his mom coming towards him, tries to strangle him or gets blown to bits before his eyes.
So...in response to my inner horror fan girl that wishes for more pain and my super pokemon buddy SatoshiLuver, I give you this fic, a nightmare that Ash should have had.
...Then again...if he did have this sort of dream, Pokemon would be down a few fans. Mainly small children.
Freakishly, half-way through writing this, I realized why the creators chose Pikachu. In future chapters, I hope to make it clear to you readers as well...in case you missed it like I did.
Dedicated to: SatoshiLuver. What can I say? The fic was practically requested...and it wouldn't have more than one chapter if SatoshiLuver did not exist.
Disclaimer: Pokemon belongs to Nintendo, Game Freak and Pokemon USA
Chapter One
Night
Sleep was beyond impossible. Each time he closed his eyes, the visions would swim up from the depths of his memories and back to the surface of his mind, where he could see the images as clear as day.
It was getting harder and harder to separate the nightmares from reality.
But he couldn't let this beat him.
Not this, oh please not something as stupid as this.
It was nothing but a dream, a pointless dream that couldn't hurt him. It wouldn't have control over him.
But what's this? Every morning he would find a few more bruises on his arms.
They always healed so fast. Brock never noticed them no matter how many times he pointed it out to the older boy.
And that? What in the world could that be? It was a large, fresh scar that traveled horizontally around the whole midsection of his body. That always faded before he even had a chance to get Brock's attention.
He would not be afraid of a few dreams. They were just nothing but stupid illusions.
But the screams were too loud.
The smell of blood was too strong.
The pain was too real.
And every night, he would wake up screaming.
Surprisingly, Brock was the first one to notice. Ash was starting to think that his best guy friend had officially ditched him for girls.
It was very late at night. Dawn was fast asleep, dreaming contently about her next contest win. Ash glared half-heartedly at her pink tent.
Was this the first time he was jealous of a girl? No. There was that one time with Misty and that other thing with May. Right now, he wished he could snore as loudly as she was and not dream about horrible things. He could be snuggling inside his cute little pink tent, with his cute little sleeping bag. Nothing bad would ever enter something so girly.
...Maybe he should buy a pink tent.
Brock handed Ash a cup of warm cocoa and sat beside him. He kept his hands firmly in front of him. "Ash, what's up?" Brock asked, his voice nothing more than a whisper in the cool night air.
Ash sighed. He could lie, but what good would that do? Last time he checked, lying just made things harder and scarier.
Like that time he told Gary there were peanut butter monsters in the closet. At first, the taller boy didn't believe him, but soon, Ash had the Great Gary Oak hiding under his bed. Needless to say, Ash was hiding under there too, right next to him.
'No...Stop there.' He warned himself.
The memory would lead him straight in to the warm arms of his-
He would not think about her.
Even though she was supposed to be his protector, his guiding light...nothing made sense anymore...
Brock put his arm around Ash's shoulder. "Come on Ash, you can tell me."
Ash managed to smile, a small one, nothing but a shadow of what it could have been. Pikachu lay by his side, looking up at him with kind brown eyes.
"It's going to sound so lame Brock..." he told the older boy, "but I've been having these weird dreams...nightmares, really. And they're...so... real..." Ash stared into the dimming fire.
The flames licked his bare flesh, tasting him, touching him. They wanted him whole. No, in pieces, bit by bit so they could enjoy his gut wrenching screams. They'd start with the feet and work up to the eyes. Oh the eyes, tasty little morsels they were. Eyeballs never lasted too long in a fire. Never lasted too long. Just a quick taste, nothing more.
Ash felt a hand on his shoulder. "Ash, are you still with me? You were falling asleep."
Ash nodded mechanically. "Yeah...No...No I don't feel so good..." he mumbled.
"Well Ash, maybe you should get back to sleep."
Ash stared up at Brock, his soft brown eyes wide with raw terror.
"No...No I can't go back to sleep! Please don't make me go to sleep Brock...please, please..."
Ash latched on to Brock's arm. A child looking for support from his older brother.
"Everything's going to be all right Ash." The older brother ignores his younger brother's pleas, believing them to be nothing but childish imaginings.
Ash stared up at Brock. He wanted to believe his big brother so much.
But the pain was too real.
His hands are held down, tied with invisible restraints. Mama hovers over him. A cleaving knife held tightly in her left hand. Without warning the knife plunges into his stomach one, two, five, twelve, twenty...he always looses count at twenty. He screams until his throat feels raw, until he's sure he can't talk. She jabs her free hand into the wounds, and swishes her fingers inside his stomach, twisting his innards. She's trying to tickle him. Unwillingly, a baby's laugh is all that remains of his voice. He laughs and laughs... the smell of blood much too strong in the air, the pain too unbearable to be real. She pulls out one long strand of his digestive track. He gurgles a bit. He can no longer feel his hands, he's barely aware of them anymore.
Ash tried hard to hide his rising panic. He would not flail around like some helpless girl. He would not break down in front of Brock. He was stronger than this...
He was ten years old. The world didn't have to rest completely on his shoulders.
"Look, I'll tuck you in, okay Ash?" Brock offered kindly. Ash can't help the panic rising to his throat. "But Brock...I'm not tired..."
His big brother wasn't listening. Oh, what was a boy to do when no one believed him?
Brock eased Ash into his sleeping bag. Ash didn't struggle. What was the point? Maybe Brock was right...
Brock pulled up the zipper. Ash wiggled around a bit, trying to get into a more comfortable position. But movement was impossible. It was as if his arms were glued to his sides. Brock pulled the zipper up to his chin.
"Feel better?" he asked.
Ash tried to shake his head, but his neck was stiff. His eyes darted around frantically, searching for what might be causing his paralysis.
Brock was gone.
In his place sat his mother. She gazed at him lovingly, a kind smile gracing her otherwise plain features. In her hands, she held two large knitting needles. She leaned in towards Ash, as if she was going to kiss him good night. Her fingers ran down his face, sloping in towards the round curve of his boyish face.
"My sweet little baby boy..." she cooed. She picked up her needles; a long strand of blue wool hung from one needle. Ms. Ketchum leaned in close to her son's face with her needles and pressed them to his lips. The needles weaved in and out, through the top lip, now the bottom, top, bottom, top, bottom...
Blood seeped into the wool, dying the blue fabric with an almost purplish color. Ms. Ketchum hummed a lullaby that Ash could remember from his childhood. Tears streamed down his cheeks, stinging the wounds that were poked into him with the needles.
But at least, the pain was bearable...it was better...
So said his mind, but his body jerked, trying hard to escape his prison. The sleeping bag wound tighter around his body, stopping all violent movement. Breathing soon became a chore. His mama still hummed her sweet lullaby, trying to lull him into a sleep he didn't want, a sleep he knew would only get worse.
"Not sleepy yet, my baby?" she asked kindly, her voice laced with concern. "Then let Mama help you sleep." She cooed. Her humming became louder and much more demanding than before. She threaded another strand of wool onto her needle. This piece was a little shorter than the last one.
'I will not panic...' he thought frantically as she brought her knitting needles to his eyes.
'It's nothing but an illusion!' Was the pain an illusion too? How could he imagine something so terrible, so horrible?
But, he thought as she moved onto his next eye, this must be an illusion because...it was impossible for any of that to happen...
The last thing he saw was his mother's smiling face.