I'm so sorry that I haven't been updating as much as I was toward the beginning! It's getting toward the end of the school year and I've been busy and blahblahblah. School can go take a hike for all I care to be honest. But anyway. This one's a bit short because I had this idea stuck in my head all day and needed to write it down. So, enjoy!
Sleeping wasn't fun. Not only was it painful, but uncomfortable in the small jail-like place they stuck Cronus and I in. It was always damp. The floor, the walls, the air. Not dry like the crow's nest, where you could see for miles. I always enjoyed the sunsets and rises there. Now I merely had the dim glow of a lantern to see.
My shirt had stuck to my bleeding and raw back when I pulled it back on the day before, and was probably still stuck with the aid of my dry blood. Cronus had removed his, saying the cool, damp air felt better than suffocating cotton. I wouldn't blame him. He took most of the damage, his wounds angry looking. His face looked angry as well. And sad. The combination of emotions made me ache for him.
We sat on the floor, or hands in each other's, fingers laced. The only time we would talk or make a noise was when we shifted, our pain becoming words, or just wanted to make sure the other was still awake. Most crying was done by me. Small sobs would tear through me when I thought of what I left behind. He would just silently pull me to him and trace lines on either my neck or arms, his fingers ghosting trails along my skin. This usually calmed me and made me drowsy. But I didn't want to sleep. And I couldn't. Not with a shark-toothed and horrid-looking man with two long scars haunting my dreams.
He would always be sitting in the corner, rings crusted with dried blood, eyes as blue as the sea itself. His mouth would be contorted into a nasty snarl, as if I was the bane of his existence. The silence was what scared me the most. He would never speak. Only stare. Then he would turn into an innocent child, his face still a mask of disgust and hatred. Then a teenager, his look more menacing. This all would happen over and over until his face turned into that of Cronus's, that same look penetrating me. He would stand then, stride up to me, and act as if he were to caress my cheek. This would only take my attention from the other hand snaking its way to my throat, closing off my air, breaking all my hope. And he would laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Until I woke up.
I didn't know what this nightmare meant. That Cronus was to turn into his father, a hollow shell of his former self? That I was afraid he would actually do this to me? I was tired of it. Tired of being tired.
Always, when I had this dream, I would wake up with a start, the other having woken me up. He would tell me I was screaming and crying out, thrashing with my eyes screwed shut. Then he would hold me, frowning as I tell him about the dream like the time before that. And before that. His expression would never change, always seeming haunted by my descriptions. And each one would get more and more detailed. How the rings would sometimes be wet with fresh blood instead of dried. How he would turn into Eridan at times, mocking me with insults of 'whore' and 'rat.'
And it went on like that for a couple days. Me sleeping fitfully. Him calming me and listening. Until someone came for us on the third day.
