Chapter Two
Author's Note: This is becoming a bit darker than I meant, but I kind of like it this way. After all, if I were Ariadne, I would become seriously depressed if I couldn't dream. Besides, I like the idea of a darker things between Arthur and Ariandne.
It was like it had eyes, constantly staring at her. She felt that creepy sensation of something watching—whether she was in the living room, trying to continue with her given mission of cleaning the place up without shaking to much, or whether she was in the bathroom, kitchen, or even bedroom wardrobe.
It was biting at her, gnawing at her resolve: she felt like an alcoholic placed in a room that had been aired with the scent of the finest whiskey—the whiskey a hands-breath away. It had taken so much of her resolve to get away from the thing after the Inception, to resist the want to under and retrieve the ability to dream the easy way out, but now it was tantalizingly in reach.
And she felt betrayed. How could Arthur keep it from her? Lie to her? Did he know how much it hurt to not dream every night? How awful it was to only dream once a week, merely experiencing blackness every time she actually managed to sleep? How hard it was to go back to sleep after the Inception? He was the one that had told her, after all. He was the first to come back after the two weeks that held them apart (safety reasons, she was assured), the first to tell her that she had to sleep normally. The first to tell her that she couldn't just use the PASIV whenever she felt the need.
The worst thing was, he knew exactly how hard it had been for her. Not only through his own, daily experiences, but through hers as well. Though he insisted that they must stay away from each other for two weeks, he was physically there for half the time, after all. She cried trying to fall asleep, desperately hoping against hope that tonight would be the night. She cried upon waking from the intense disappointment of not having dreamed for yet another night. He had seen the effects of the first two weeks, even—and those had been the worst. When she found out she couldn't dream anymore, after two nights of horrendous blackness, she had decided to stay awake for virtually the entire time in her hotel. She emerged from those two weeks drugged up on coffee, chocolate, and (though she hated it) energy drinks ,with only about 48 hours of sleep (caught in periods of two hour naps when she couldn't help it anymore). When she had drifted into her apartment, relieved at last to be freed from her LA hotel, she was astounded to see Arthur, but even more so when she had looked in the mirror. She saw there what she had become—a ghost. A pale, morose ghost with ghastly bags under her eyes and a disheveled appearance that took two days to wear off.
She was drained emotionally for about three months. They wouldn't even be together today, a semester later, if Arthur hadn't helped her; though he went through the same trouble. She doubted she would be here at all if it wasn't for him—it was just so addicting, the urge to dream without abandon. She didn't doubt it all: if he hadn't been there for her, helped break her habit, she would be like those in Mombasa, the ones Yusuf had told her about. She would be there for the rest of her life, hooked up to a box, dreaming her life away.
She remembered thinking about how unfair it was. Most people who were in the dreaming business weren't affected like this. Most people went through a minimal redrawal after the first job, then hardened themselves to it and went back to business like normal. Like Arthur. Most people only had to deal with the serious repercussions—the need to dream a certain amount of time each day—by the time they were in their late 50's or early 60's. By the time they could deal with it.
But even though she was as strong as she was, even though she had only been doing this for a minimal amount of time, even though she should have had time to adjust, even though she would have quit and been free of the cycle...she had gone to Limbo. And that's where the trouble really was. That's why it had become so addicting to her, though she hadn't been doing it as long as Arthur. But still she faced the same level of intoxication as Arthur did.
She thought he was protecting her when he didn't let her dream on the PASIV anymore. He even told her he was protecting her. It seemed she had thought wrong. Arthur had chosen to hid the PASIV from her. He had chosen to lie to her about giving it to Cobb. And whether he used or not didn't matter—dreaming had meant so much to her, and he knew it. Je ne regrette rien, my arse, thought Ariadne as, dropping a stack of former projects, she marched to the closet, grabbed the suitcase, settled herself on the couch, and began attaching the familiar IV to her arm. I don't care if I'm acting like a child, or even like an addict. Every person deserves dreams. And Arthur can't very well keep them away from me! I very well will regret it if I don't take this chance to hook up before I bitch to Arthur about it; before he starts to "protect me" again. Fat lot of good it did me, his "protecting".
She was smiling when she went under.