*~*~Chapter 8~*~*
Flower petals. Silken blurs of red carried on an unfelt wind. They danced across his vision, but he couldn't see them. He opened his eyes. Raven black hair blew in that same unperceivable breeze, teasing across narrow white-clad shoulders.
"Rem," he murmured, his eyes widening.
Her head turned and she looked at him, warm brown eyes looking down on him through a curtain of straight ebony hair. She said nothing.
He looked at her questioningly, waiting for her to speak as she always did in these dreams. Her eyes held him, speaking silent volumes in a language he couldn't quite grasp. A sparkling tear rolled down her cheek.
He started to sit up, quiet fear rising in his throat for reasons he couldn't identify. Why didn't she say anything? He looked deeper into her eyes, trying to understand whatever it was she was trying to tell him. Her eyes shone with the same warmth and love that had been almost omnipresent when he had known her, but there was more than that now. There also was sadness, and… pain. Tired, deep, immeasurable pain resonating within those russet eyes. His breath caught in his throat as he noticed yet another emotion, one that shook him to the depths of his being; fear.
He tried to speak, to ask what was wrong, to beg forgiveness for whatever he had done to cause her so much pain. Another crystalline tear slid down her cheek.
He suddenly noticed that her face seemed darker than I had been a few seconds ago. He glanced at the sky. It was no longer a beautiful, clear blue, it had darkened to a strange shade of grey, infused with its former blue and a sickly orange color. He watched at it deepened still, into that cold fire, then into a deep, horribly beautiful blood red. The air around him began to warm, sending hot breaths burning across the exposed skin of his face. The flower petals swirling around him glowed black against the crimson sky, then began to incinerate in midair as they blew past his horror-struck eyes.
He looked desperately at Rem, his heart nearly stopping as his eyes traveled over her form. She was like a silhouette, with no features he could clearly make out, though the bleeding sky illuminated everything around him, she alone remained in shadow. Her hair, blowing wildly in the scorching black wind, began to disintegrate, the strands becoming shorter as nearly invisible pieces were dispersed by the wind like ashes.
He reached out to her in panic, screaming though he could hear no sound but the deafening roar of the heat and wind and sky, beating against his body, sending shocks of sharp, hot pain through his nerves. His hands passed through her reducing shape, and he recoiled in terror, clutching his burned hands to his chest. With one wrathful gust, the tearing wind tore the remains of her body away, scattering like cinders and disappearing into the distant darkness.
He screamed wordlessly, physical and emotional pain tearing at every fiber of his body and soul. His hands rose to his face, and he sobbed dry tears into them. He pulled them away; repulsed by the way they had felt against his skin, warm, slick and sticky. He stared at them, stained with a sickening black substance that dripped between his fingers and ran down his arm.
He looked up, past his unclean hands, at a shadowed figure standing before him. It raised a hand toward him, holding a large, custom-made, upside-down-barreled, double action revolver that gleamed an eerie silver-blue in the blood-bathed light that surrounded them. It was his very own gun.
The thin figure stood, holding the gun at arm's length, the gun never wavering, as the figure seemed to, amidst the billowing, whipping fabric of some otherworldly garment. He stared dumbly down the barrel of his gun, then up at the dark apparition who aimed it with deadly accuracy at his blood-smeared forehead.
The click of the hammer as it was cocked was unmistakably clear even in the deafening howl of the wind. He wanted to cry out, wanted to scream, wanted to make it stop, but he couldn't move. An invisible force held him in a vise-like grip, forcing his eyes to remain on that pure silver glow. He was faintly aware that his body was shaking uncontrollably and his hands still wavered in front of him. His hair whipped across his face; stinging like a slap every time it brushed his cheek. Then he heard it.
The crack of gunpowder thunder that was achingly familiar shattered his eardrums and a wave of blinding pain barreled into the center of his chest.
Screams. Screams in multiple voices that blended together into a cacophony of indescribable pain and suffering.
Meryl's chest contracted in a painful spasm and she shot bolt upright in her bed, cold perspiration beaded on her brow. She clutched her hands to her head, trying desperately to free her mind from the nightmare that still gripped her. Her heart pounded in her chest as if it was trying to escape as she tried to shake away the imagined screams.
No…wait. Not imagined. She was awake, but could still hear the screams. Those terrible, blood-curdling cries that pierced her ears and heart were real. It was coming from the hallway. It was coming from Vash's room.
She ripped the blankets off her legs and stumbled clumsily out of bed in her haste. She landed hard on her cast, and bit her lip painfully to repress the surprised cry that was rising in her throat. She shoved it to the back of her mind and limped as quickly as she could to her doorway. She threw open the door and it hit the wall with a ringing CRASH, leaving a doorknob-sized impression in the wall. She staggered down the hallway and stopped at his door, vaguely noticing that the screams had stopped. She put her hand on the doorknob, ready to tear the door out of the wall if she needed to. A wave of realization swept over her and she asked her self; what the hell am I doing? The silence was absolute. There was no sound but her ragged breaths echoing quietly in the narrow hallway. Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe Vash was sleeping soundly on the other side of that door. A scenario played out in her mind; Meryl bursting through his bedroom door in the middle of the night, waking him from a sound sleep and confirming any notions he might have had that she was a complete lunatic. She laughed at herself disgustedly.
But those screams… They were still imprinted on her mind, and her heart still held that dull pain that constricted her throat and threatened to take her over completely. And the voice… was distinctly Vash's. She was sure she hadn't imagined it.
She pressed her ear against the door, holding her breath, straining to hear something- anything- coming from his room. She waited for a few moments, tuning out her own ragged breath and slowly calming heartbeat.
Strained breaths. Intermittent gasps and quiet sobs.
He was there. And he was awake. And he was crying. Again.
She rapped her knuckles softly on the door.
"Vash?" No response. "Vash… are you okay?"
There was no response, no sound indicating whether he wanted her to come in or go away, so she turned the knob silently and slowly opened the door.
He was sitting on the floor, in the corner created by his bed and his nightstand. His arms clutched his own shoulders and his knees were drawn up to his chin. He was shaking visibly, and his hair, like his pajamas, was disheveled. The blankets on his bed were twisted and tied and dragging on the floor.
Meryl's heart tightened in her chest as she took in the scene before her. Her eyes filled with tears. He didn't even seem to notice that she had come in. Without thinking, she shut the door behind her and limped as quietly as she could to his side, where she sank to her knees. She put her hands over his and tried to pry them from their white-knuckled grip on his arms. Her sprained wrist tingled with discomfort, but she didn't relent. He wouldn't let go. His eyes were wide and staring at nothing as she tried again to unlock his hands.
"Vash," she whispered quietly but sternly, as if to an upset child.
The eyelashes framing empty aqua eyes fluttered, and he loosened his grip.
Gently, she unwrapped his arms from the insecure self-embrace, and one of his hands flopped laxly to the floor.
She glanced back up at his face. His eyes were closed now, and he wore a look of exhausted defeat. Just looking at him was painful.
One tear slid down her face and she tore her gaze away from that heartbreaking expression. She slipped her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest. He was still shaking. Every particle of her was screaming out for him to stop. It was close to unbearable seeing him like this. For now, all she could do was hope that her presence would make him feel a little better.