Thanks to all who reviewed! I don't own Sands-- although it would be fun, the insanity factor might be a bit of a hassle.

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II. Horror

There were some questions, Sands had deemed a long time ago, to which it just was not worth knowing the answers. It was simply too much hassle. One such question was, 'Can blind people see their dreams?'

What a stupid question, Sands had realized. Who really wanted to find out? The answer was, 'Of course, turdball.' Sands often dreamt vividly – sometimes too vividly. He could see, alright, but sometimes things would get weird, where everything was distorted. Like the sky might be purple and all the people would leer at him with green and pink faces, and the sun, which Sands distinctly remembered as being bright and yellow, might be black and suck in all the light. A nice little Black Hole Sun.

In Sands' eyes – or lack thereof – a better question might be, 'Can blind people see in their dreams?' As for this, well, his dreams, just like everything else in his twisted little world, were really messed up to say the least.

Sometimes he was his "normal" eyeless self. Sometimes he was just a skinny kid again, a nine-year-old Sheldon who dreaded going to school each day but always hated coming home in the afternoon. On a rare, pleasant occasion, he was his old proper self, eyes and all, restoring the balance as was vital.

And every so often, when he was truly at odds with himself, he had the worst kind of dream ever; the kind that Sands, having fallen into a restless sleep, was experiencing even as he sat immobile in the corner. It was one of those dreams in which the dreamer is just a third-person type, a spectator, unable to interfere in or affect anything that would happen. This sort of thing Sands did not enjoy at all. He preferred to be in charge of everything, for often in reality he was not.

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Sands was watching a boy of nine or ten, who somehow he understood to be himself, walking not far ahead. Young Sheldon was wearing all black even though it was a sunny blue-skied day. Sands remembered doing that. He had always liked black.

He looked on with disgust at the boy's hunched walk, his hands jammed into his pockets, his face tilted slightly downward, staring at the ground.

Sands wanted to take the kid by the shoulders and just shake some confidence into him; tell him to stand straight and look at the world and not the fucking ground while he still could. But no, he could only be a silent watcher, tortured by the fact that he could see again but do nothing. He had yet to see the boy's face.

He continued to watch himself walk down to what seemed to be a dusty, deserted Mexican plaza. Strange, considering he'd never been to Mexico till his CIA days. Suddenly, the boy looked very lost, stopping dead in his tracks at the center of the plaza and turning his head – but never raising it – slightly left, and then right. Finally, the boy slowly turned around, and Sands, though apparently disembodied in this strange dream- world, fought back a wave of nausea.

As if the majority of his life had never happened, young Sheldon's eyes were gone, naught but ensanguined caverns drooling thick dark blood down pale cheeks. Sands watched, gruesomely spellbound, as the boy crouched to the ground, gingerly touching sandy cobblestones, trying to find something by feel alone. Not locating what it was he wanted, the boy got on his hands and knees and began to tentatively crawl, brushing the ground with his fingertips.

Sands, unusually aware of himself, was reminded of a time about three weeks after the coup d'etat when he had stayed at some shitty-ass hotel that smelled like vodka and a hooker's perfume. And grapes, for some odd reason. He had despite his careful efforts knocked his sunglasses off the splintery night table (where he put them when he slept, which wasn't often), and then accidentally kicked them across the floor. He too had crawled in search of something invisible, for a good ten minutes. Had he looked this pathetic, this fucking weak?

Out of nowhere, a crowd of people began to form a circle around the oblivious boy. Everyone was there: Barrillo, Ajedrez, Cucuy, Dr. Guevara, even Belini, along with countless others he'd plotted against, or balanced out, or even just had a bad experience with. Hell, those fucking kids from his damn school days were even there.

'Some things just don't change... they just get worse,' Sands thought. 'You get beat up in middle school, you get your eyes drilled out when you're all grown up.'

The boy detected the sound of shuffling footsteps on rock. Abandoning his fruitless search, he scrambled to his feet.

Sands felt full of hatred watching all these dickweeds enjoying the boy's desperation – his desperation. Cucuy, the traitor, grinning at him with a cruel scarred face. Dr. Guevara, complete with his goddamn blood- covered drill, the last thing he'd ever seen. Ajedrez, another betrayer, her gorgeous features disfigured by a smug smile.

The boy turned every which way, not sure where to go, as the people began to move towards him. He heard the crunch of glass and plastic under the unseen feet of his enemies, and began to freak right out.

Blood trailed ceaselessly down the boy's face. A small red river made its way down to his mouth; he licked it off dry lips with his tongue. Starting to panic, the boy's hands went to his hips and found guns that hadn't been there before.

Like he'd been born to do it – the only sure and deft thing he'd done yet – he pulled the guns out of their holsters and began to fire around the circle. Shots rang out but everyone just laughed at him. He hadn't hit a single person.

But wait – he had shot someone. 'Oh my Christ,' Sands thought in horror. Somehow, impossible except in this little corner of the Twilight Zone, every last bullet had hit a yellow t-shirt. He'd shot the little Chicle boy, ripping the poor kid apart, blood staining his clothes.

And somehow the boy knew what he'd done as well. His fingers went numb and the guns clattered to the ground. Young Sheldon fell to his knees, helpless as the hordes closed in around him.

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Sands woke up with a start, cold sweat permeating canvas, gunshots still echoing in his head. Fortunately that was all that was in there... no more taunts for now. He leaned his head back against the wall and fell back into troubled dreams, full of dust and stars and shattered glass.

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Well, there's chapter 2 for ya! I've responded to everyone who I could via e-mail, but for those of you who didn't give one, here you go:

Spoofmaster-- Well, anything for cheese! Hope this pleased you; it was rather a long one!

Hey, anyone wanna drop me a review? I'll be your best friend! ;)