Bored To Death
Dreams can be strange, but his are more like homicidal.
One Shot. Zhao. Darkfic. Comedy.
When a normal person looks at their hands, they see flesh, hidden muscles flexing with every thought, nimble fingers waiting for a task.
When I look at my hands, no matter how many times I wash them, I see blood. I see blood drip, drip, dripping onto the floor, a fresh, bright red, as though I'd plunged my hand through a man's chest to brutally rip his beating heart out and squeeze it a few times for fun.
How deranged. How charming.
No matter how hard I work before I eventually go to sleep, dreams—nightmares—memories… haunt me. Some nights I sleep through in a blissful coma. Others, I'm faced by the innocents whose deaths are at my hands.
Last night?
A small, headless baby crawls toward me shakily. It's mother—in too many pieces to follow—merely finds herself carried by the second son; he was about ten, I suppose, but I had ordered no mercy. He was cut down as he stooped over his freshly dead mother's corpse and sobbed.
Next comes the slow, gory parade of lost souls; my own second-cousins are among them. Some are fixed at the point in which their blood boiled from the pyre I'd had them burned alive on, and have legs burned to ash, and terrible boils and burns coating their muscle and bone exposed bodies.
Others are merely rotted skeletons from various battlefields or burned-out villages I'd left to be picked clean by scavengers. Apparently, I was correct in my assumption the coyotes would be eating good; one was still barely alive when we left yet another town. As he cried out weakly for help, the wild dogs were happy to oblige.
The night before that, I got to watch a replay of the murder of every woman I'd ever had to kill, and let me tell you, by the time I was a third of the way through watching re-runs of various women being raped, run through, burned alive, maimed, stabbed, decapitated, slowly skinned alive, starved, bled, and beaten to death, I was bored to tears.
My subconscious really knows how to piss me off. If I ever figure out how to kill ones subconscious or conscience, one of these days I think he'll enjoy a nice few weeks on the rack.
Or maybe I'll get bored enough to do my own torture. I hear that my torturers developed a nice method. It involves slowly peeling the skin off of your victim's body, then making a clean cut into the chest cavity and slowly pushing pins and needles through their various organs.
I'll have to capture that little snot Zuko and test it on him. Should be fun.
Anyways. My dreams are seriously starting to make me a bit annoyed. I've had to take to mentally practicing preparing a snack within dreams—no easy task—and the zombie chefs always end up leaving body-parts in my noodles. Disrespectful little undead fuck-ups. If they weren't already dead…
Really. I can't tell you how many decomposing eyeballs or pieces of brains I've had to fish out of my soup. You'd swear they were trying to kill me with this cooking of theirs! For dreams, they sure have a lot of area to improve.
Agni. Why can't I just dream about rape and pillage like I used to?