A/N: Yay, no pairings this time, only our favorite nutty prophet. I really love writing 6 for some reason. I feel that I was a bit harsh on him... Poor guy. Oh well. Thanks to all who review, fave, and alert this; it's much appreciated. If you want to see a particular pairing or concept written about, tell me, and I'll move it to the top of my list.
D is for Dreamer
He had always wondered, vaguely, if he was the only one of them who could dream. Actually, just whether or not his kind slept was a matter of debate. They were not biological, and sleep, like eating, was completely unnecessary. At least, it should be; they had never truly figured out exactly what powered them, but whatever it was, they always felt more refreshed after they had voluntarily lost consciousness for a night.
Six had never asked if any of the others saw what he saw when they slept. At first, he didn't know anyone well enough, then he never got the right opportunity. After that, he had such trouble articulating even that which was the most important to him, so he didn't bother anymore. Sometimes, he liked the idea that only he got these odd visions. They could be very fun, at times. Sometimes, he would see the other stitchpunks. Sometimes, he was one of the other stitchpunks. He liked those dreams. He may not be close to them in the waking world, but while he "slept," he felt like he knew them better than anyone else.
On the whole, these dreams were nonsensical. Upon waking up, he knew that the events were impossible. Sometimes, however, something from one of his dreams would happen in reality, and for some reason, this unsettled, even offended him. Oftentimes, while dreaming, he was perfectly aware of his surroundings. If he so wished, he could bend the world around him to his will. He liked that. He felt trapped so often while awake, so helpless. For the one place he had any kind of control over to reach out to the others was odd. He felt slightly selfish for it, but he wanted these dreams to be his, and his alone.
On a deeper level, he found it frightening. He had dreamed of Seven's departure days before it had happened, and when she and the Twins fled, he felt a mixture of guilt that he hadn't somehow prevented it, and unease that he had known it was coming. He was glad that he was the only one who dreamt in the way he did, but having it spill over to the real world felt unnatural. Wrong. He kept wanting to blame himself anytime he dreamed about something bad happening before it really did. Eventually, he began to push those dreams that felt like they might come true aside, pretending they were simply dreams, nothing more. Like the one about One and Two. They didn't get along too well, but Six convinced himself that what he had seen was never possible, that One was their leader, and would never do that. When Two went missing, he had forgotten about it completely.
As time went on, his dreams shifted. Not only did the others appear less often, but the general tone changed, too. Some his dreams before were sad, yes, and some of them dark, but they were nothing compared to the later ones. These made even less sense, too. They began to lose any recognizable storyline, and become flashes of random images. Beasts, stitchpunks that he didn't recognize, flashes of green light, and strange symbols. He hated these dreams, and woke up shivering and shuddering every time. By that time, he had become familiar with the sensation that a dream would become real. It was a heavy, foreboding sensation, most of the time. Now, he felt it every time he fell asleep.
It was especially unpleasant when combined with how weird the dreams were. At least with the earlier dreams, when he knew something would come true, he had a pretty good idea of what would happen. Now, he only had vague snatches of ideas for the future. It was also the first time he had reoccurring dreams, too. Certain things, most notably the symbols and flashes of green, seemed to show up in every single dream. He could always hear distant screaming.
So he stopped sleeping. After all, he reasoned, they didn't need sleep; it was a luxury that made life for them more pleasant, more comfortable.
If he had kept enough of his mind to feel regret, he would have regretted that decision for the rest of his life. It wreaked havoc on his mental health, for one thing. He had always been shy and quiet, but that was his nature. If he really wanted to speak with one of the others, he could. Now, he spoke so little because he had to. It was almost as though his brain forgot how to speak, for the most part. He was limited to a few simple sentences, which he clung to as though his life depended on it. Maybe it did. His hands, too, became more erratic in their work. Once, he had been meticulous, careful placing his lines to create a perfect, almost lifelike image on paper. Now, he scribbled wildly, furiously, splattering his papers with splotches of stray ink.
In some ways, the deterioration of his mind was linked to the much worse, and much stranger side-effect of going without sleep.
He couldn't stop dreaming.
It was as though a film was constantly playing in the back of his mind. He was determined not to sleep, but the dreams kept on coming. Sometimes, they would overtake him, and he would pass out, only to awake later, having been subjected to more unknown horrors. He had more trouble than he ever had in communicating to the others, but for the first time, he felt a desperation to do so. A few phrases, left over from the visions, stuck fast in his head, and he repeated them to all those who would listen. They had to go back, back to the Source of it all. Of course, they never listened. They had stopped listening long ago.
It was for the same reason that his drawing style had changed so much. For one thing, it provided a welcome distraction from the terror that constantly threatened to overwhelm him. As long as his hands were scrabbling madly over paper, he couldn't fall asleep, no matter how tired. It was also his way to warn the others. They paid no attention to his pleading verbally, so he drew the source of his torment, over and over. Two, at least, seemed interested in it, but he missed the point of the drawings. They weren't directions, they were meant to discourage inquisitive minds from getting into the danger that they were connected to. It never worked.
Yet, there were a few times when all the madness, all the delirium, simply stopped. The buzzing in Six's mind was cut off. He could finally breathe freely, without worrying that at any moment he would be seized by another vision. He wanted to relax, more than anything else. He was a dreamer, however, and only he could warn the others. It never stopped, really.