Demyx-325
He dreams of thunder. It's dark and dangerous and the sky is alight with blazing streaks of lightning.
He dreams of wind. Great gales that blow with a ferocious intent to destroy and shriek in anger. It whips his hair and makes the rain feel like a thousand needles; pricking at his face and arms, begging to draw blood but unable.
He dreams of the sea. The waves roll and crash and thunder nearly as loudly as the sky above. They pound mercilessly against the ship. They pull and build and fall and destroy. The sea is deep with eyes.
He dreams of the ship. It sways dangerously to and fro. The mast is broken and great sheets billow crookedly above him. The crew is gone and the ship is abandoned. He is all that is left.
He dreams of ghosts and ghostly screams. Of horror and shock and the final peace found in the acceptance of fate. Of refusals and defiance. And of a thousand more emotions that are acknowledged and only felt like strange a mist passing through his chest.
He dreams of the horizon and the monstrous darkness that rises from it, coming ever so closer. He can see more of the churning, black, furious sea through the hole in the darkness' chest and his gaze strays to the many, many eyes that see him too. In the end it is all he sees.
When he wakes it is not with a start nor is it a slow rise to consciousness; it is as if he was never asleep at all. As he gazes around the stark white room, the dream fades so rapidly he forgets he ever dreamed to begin with. Having nothing to do for some time he take out his sitar and plays a melody from another life and another dream.