Chapter Three
Arthur knew he was screwed the minute he came home to find Ariadne on the couch, the PASIV resting in her lap.
He sighed, closes his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. If only he had gotten rid of the thing.
He didn't quite know how to explain this to Ari. How could he? He was the one to persuade her not to use it, not to get caught up in it's spell. But he was the one that had sneaked the dreams like a hypocrite. Late at night, when he felt too desperate and lost. When he needed to dream.
He sighed again. Many people were oblivious when it came to dreams. They didn't realize how imperative it was to a person's well being. Even just physically: those who don't dream often are more depressed, agitated, sensitive...even despondent. Most people have problems with memory loss, obesity, and lack of concentration if they don't dream.
But that was just the physical, statistical side to it. Arthur knew the true disasters: no creativity. No hope. A weight inside your heart that drags you down into a unbelievable despair that you can only get out of if you have great luck, and someone by your side.
Oh yes. Arthur knew the side effects well enough.
He opened his eyes. And even though he knew that he shouldn't, he wished that he could have given this to Ariadne far earlier. She looked so peaceful, so content...he wanted to give this happiness to her all the time. But the price for that was too heavy for Arthur—for them—to pay. Even if he was beyond hope, even if he could no longer function without it, Ariadne had to. He couldn't let her get sucked away in the vortex of dreams; he couldn't let her become that addicted to it.
He was beyond hope, but she wasn't. And there was no way in hell that would let her become that way.
As he began to insert the IV into his arm, he had to grimace. It was always a feeling of shame and disappointment that accompanied the glee as he went into a dream, and it was even more sad when he realized that he felt that way. Dreams shouldn't come along with those things, he thought, as he added time on the meter and began to sink into blissful oblivion. Dreams should be more beautiful than that. They shouldn't be dangerous territory. They should be more like Ariadne: edgy, free, beautiful...glorious.