I wrote this to take my mind of the fact that Dead Man Walking does not want to write. I really am sorry about this Jamie. Hopefully writing something else will help me come at it with a clear head, though actually (shock horror) getting out of the house doesn't seem to have helped too much yet.
But, yeah. The nightmare has been done a lot in this fandom, so I tried to figure out some way of making it more original. And as far as I know (tho I haven't read most of the fics in the last six weeks or so- BUT I WILL, eventually, promise, everyone), no one's approached it this way before.
This is, I think, the second most internal thing I've ever written. The first being that 'Song to Say Goodbye' songfic. I like experimentalism.
Some visual inspiration taken from that game on the Boosh BBC site.
Warning: violent imagery.
Hope you enjoy.
Nightmares
Stumble on the rough ground. Fall to the floor. Hard, hot stones. Discomfort. Pain.
A heat in the air. Dark skies and charged clouds. Electric. Lightning. Distant roll of thunder. Prickling on the back of the neck.
Look around.
Chain-link fences ripped to shreds, barbed wire buried in scorched earth. Plants trampled from a million running footsteps. Cars burn, smashed and ravaged, scattered over the burnt landscape. Dark water bears rotting raised ships. Moans and death rattles on the wind.
Get up. Move; slow, wary. Fear. Dull half-light, dull heartbeat. Step, step, step. Stale, humid heat. The stench. Smoke, burnt rubber and slow, lingering death. Keep walking.
Corpses, black as ash, burnt, mutilated, ripped apart, dumped in heaps with the debris. Ashen threads of clothes, thin twisted limbs, shrivelled skulls, contorted grimaces of pain and fear, glowing white teeth. Brittle fingers reaching for God.
Step over them. Stumble. Keep going.
Eyes ahead. No sound. No thought. Only twilight. Twilight and fear and purpose. Keep moving.
Scratches from jagged metal. Pain; sharp, sterile. Hot trickle of blood.
Blue and gold cloth caught on twisted wire. Stinking pools of blood and fur. Blue cotton wet with gristle. Broken top hat trampled into the ground. Once-bright orange and faded black stained in red mud. Dented trombone, shine dulled. White bones and scaly flesh ripped limb from limb.
Nausea. Whining buzz of feeding flies. Sick. Strain.
Run.
Stress. Pain. Panic. Fear.
Fall.
A dull ache. Heavy breath. Heart won't stop. Torn. Strained. It hurts.
Gone. Here. Alone.
No one.
Here. Alone. With It.
A call, faint, searching.
"Howard… Howard…"
Tremble and hide.
"Howard…"
And turn to the call. Look up to the voice. Rise.
And wake, to sunlight, the touch of his warm hand, as blue eyes shine concerned from beneath his raven halo.