on and on and on and on [closed]

[johnny_truant]

[[cw: claustrophobia; also egregious liberties taken with formatting]]


I know it all. I know everything:
the little secrets that you keep.
I'm gonna haunt your dreams at night;
you'll have to hide those kitchen knives.



I̻͙͛ ̞̰̋ͦ̋̚s͖̮̯t͂̍í̗͉̮̼̻̊̑͒̔ͦl̤͌̓l̻ͣ̾̿̆ ͎̯̑g̫̠̈̀̏͒̊et̠̦͔͈̓ ͋̽n͍̱͖̠̥͋ͫ̓i̪̜̩̝̱ͣͫͪ͛̂ͨͬğ͙̝͊ͧͮ̚h̲̹̲̪̘͙ͣͭͣͣ̚t͇̠m̰̯̱̝͈͉̹aͨ͗̀̿̚r̽e̟̞̭̠̎̇s̺̅ͭ̂.̩̘̲̥͍̋͑̅̈́͗̔̚

Johnny's running, it doesn't matter what from, only that he keeps running, doesn't stop, doesn't look back, Orpheus and Eurydice but she's not a longlost love she's a m͖͉͖̏͒̽̂̓͒̚ọ̜͕̖̰̝̹̏͋ͪ͛́̂͆ṇ̝̲̫̱̯͇s͎̱ͯte̦̙͉̻͚͎͍ͭ̐͛̆͆r͉̙͔͖͇͇̋ͦͪ̐ͧ and she's coming for him.

N̲̩̣ͪ̑͛̈ŏ͖̭͈̟̃̔̾̏̾ ͔̤̙̙̻ͤ̀̀͂ͦ̇̚ͅǒ͓͔͔̪̿͒ͣ̃n̞̪̹̮̝͂̍̚ẹ̭̖̮̺͇͍̒ͫͯ ̮̱e̗̪̥̍ͩ̅̋̄v̹̪͍̪͓̤̗͌̈́e̪ͯ̌͐r̥̝̭̪͊ͨ̃̒ ̮̮̩̠r̤̺̖͚̰͚͂̓͗͋e̻̭ȁ̑̐̿ͣl̼ͣ̑͊ͥ̏ly̬̘̞͇̻̮͐ͮͮͧ̽̾ ̎ͩg̯͇͇̲̰̙ͧͩ̾̉ͬē͕̗̣̪͙͖̙ͭ̐̇ͧt͖̅̏͗s̔̾̌̒̎ ̟̖̝͓ͩ̆̄̊ŭ̬̞̰̣̽̉̓ͫs̋ͬ̎̓ͪ̑̊e̠͚̭̼̎͂d̹̙ͭ̃̒͊̿ͪ̇ ̦͓͕̻͈̟͑t̩̮̺͙ͯͧ͐͒͂ͅó̤̤͎̭ͪ̄͒͐ ͉̦͕̣̮̯̂̽ͯͣn͚͍͛i͈̻ͦ̔̚g̬̟̤͖̺̿͋̏̆̾h̗͍̜̘ͦ̓̂͗ͨ̚t͎͕̩̪̯̓̎̇ͫm̞͎̹͓̪̠̩͂̓ͥ͂a̳̿̈r̥͕̤̫̝͕ͪě̬̖̝̖ͮ̇̇͐ͧs̙.̻̰͖̪̙͙͋

Echoes bouncing off the walls. The tunnel warps around him, dirt, brick, vile rotting wood, bending and creaking and twisting to narrow the passage up ahead, making it harder to move, forcing him down, hands in the dirt, crawling now, scrambling and desperate. She's very, very close.

F̟̹̙ͅͅȏ͇̙̈̈͐r̰̓ ̮͖̺̩̻̠͗ͨ̈͗ă̝̬͍͔̾́ ̉̉͋w͎ͭ̇h̼̟͉̠͕̻̲͑̽̾̓͗i̳͎͚̹͎̎͑ͪͯ̽ͫͫl͔͉͙̥͚̽̓̏é͒ ̙̻ͧͥͨ͌̏ͥ̿ẗ̲́͛̏ͤ͆h͔̠̙̊̾̏̒̈ͣe̺͎r͚̯̣̙e͙̥̦͓̖̓̑̅̍ ͎̠͇̬͈̤̲ͮI͓̳̞͛̾̔͌ͅ ̝t̅͑̓̾̑̏ͣr̬̻̐i͙ͯ̂̽̆̇̒e̩̻̩̦̘̪ͮ́͛d̞͗̌͂ͥ̒̒͊ ̻͇̥̖͓̘͉̄͐̍̏͊̌̔ẹ͎̠̼̫͇̥̏͐ͣ̆v̼͙̐̓ͣe͕͕̞͔͈̪̋̀ͦͭṙ͓̦̗͕ͮͅy͔̼ͥ ̙͙͚̥͔̱̾̿ͯp͕͚̱̟̋͋ͩͪi̞̠̪̤͖͂̓̅̽̃̓̍ͅl͓̩͇̯̤͚̟ĺ̌̓̋̒ͫ ̟̟i̗̻̗̻̞̞͒ͧͪ̓͐m͎̫͚̩̬͓ä͋ͤ̓̓g̪̭̚ỉ͖̯̭̠͉̐̌͐̌ń͓͖͓̩͍ͧ͗̏̆ͤa̳̜̖̻̹͑ͥͬ͊̽̍b̬͎̱̲͙̳ͣ̍̒́l̹͉̦͇̓̇ͫ͆ͤ̊̊e̼̲̪̬͕

He's heard this refrain before, or maybe seen it? Typeset before him from his very own fingertips. That stupid story he never should have told. It keeps catching up to him. Again and again. Can't get away from it. It's in him now. The house, the abomination of it, it's in his blood and bones, the tingle in his hands when he reshapes architecture like a goddamn monster, exactly like the thing that is chasing him, chasing himself. It's an ouroboros and there's no escape, inevitably, that's the way the thing works, after all. Escape would defeat the purpose. Maybe dreams are punishment for his lifetime of fuckup. Maybe they're reminders that nothing will ever change. Maybe maybe maybe.

S̯̲̙̯̘̜ͮͧ̒̇ͫ̏l͓̩̜̝̭͉̤̂̎̑ͧ̎ͫe̻ͨ̑̽͋ep̦̲̫̱̘̅̎͊͊̆͗'̩̳̤̠̰̩̍ͥ̈́̽̍̏s̭͕̬͇̃̋̀ͅ ͇͙̠͉̩̩̽̎͒̂ͤͯb̞̹̔ê̜̹̖͕͒́̅e̖̞̙͍ͦ̈̾̒ͪͦñ͋̈́͆ͩͥ̾ ̣s̭͍͎͓͋̌̂̐͂tͬ͊ͤͤa̎̿̋ͪ̑ͤl̬̲̪͎̟ͮ̈̀̑̄k̳̮̯̓̈́̄̍ͯ̋̐i̳ͤͫ̂n̘͙̜̘͕͍ͥg̃͋͗̾ ̥̾m͈̭̳̗͇̓ͬ̈́̄ͅe̘̫̣̽̾̍̑ͫ ͧͬ̔̓ͣf̠̞͚̽̍̃o̤̩̩̓ͣr̹̩ͬ̍ ̠̣̩̣̙̌̽͐̔͒tͪͨ͋̍ö̭̼̝̪́͊̃o̫̯̞̾ ̗̻͎ͬ͐̔̋̀̓̑l͇͓ͬo͕͖̼̤̹̜͊ͦͮͯ̇nͦ͊g̬̤̪̪̝͕̲̊͂̄͋ ͙͕̥̣͗t͔̤̦ͦ͑̑̉ͤ̚o̳̖̞̣ͦͭ̄̆ ͈̊́͒r͕̭͉̝̹ͭ͛̓ͭe̒ͩ̑ͣm̠̲̤̪̯̄̌ͩ̉̒̃e̘̜̦͔̪͈ͅmͫ̃͛̆̏͊͆bͮͦē̉ͮ̓r̻̜̟̙͓ͬ͂̈́.̻̣̂̄͊

Johnny runs writhes in the dirt, the corridor so tight now that it's pressing around him on all sides, oh god oh god, too small, too close, can't get a hand free to change it, can't breathe at all.

But still here. Still alive, for a certain definition of life. Dreamed up life. Pinioned and trapped in his little enclosure, worm on a hook, fly in a web, the tail of the snake. Devouring himself.

Things settle. He's scared, but not panicking. He's not sure he's still being chased. Maybe he's already caught. Maybe she wasn't behind him so much as all around, housing him. Now she's trying to crush him. He's still breathing, in fact his breath is all he can hear now, hot and loud and heavy, but he can't shake the sensation of being smothered, wrung out.

And there's something else now. Something familiar. A little shift in the atmosphere. Hard to parse. Everything's more tangible now. Not a proper dream. He recognizes it all too quickly, too easy with all the traces left in him, sense memory lighting him up like a goddamn beacon. Oh no, no.

This is not better.

He's here.

Comments

[antitimelord]

There are some things that love the clinging dark, or at least feel a kinship with it; if Zagreus exerts himself on some mental level he can be one, or at least his own approximation of one. It isn't nailed down, but neither is anything else, of course, none of his ambitious approximations. This isn't his dark, anyway, but the fast-beating fear of it is familiar enough. Johnny isn't nearly as hard to find as he'd like to be.

Zagreus is at ease with the Dreaming now, influencing its ambiance ever so casually, letting a mantle of cold underwater depths fall over this non-house and its occupant. Another adopted approximation, the paradox of emptiness and heaviness that these non-existent drowning depths represent. It's important. It would be almost benevolent, if it weren't so entirely about taking control of the atmosphere and its terrors. Johnny seems stuck, lost in his own misery and fright, how original. Like spotting a coin on the ground and plucking it up, he hauls Johnny up and out. All the crushing, smothering is like wet newspaper once faced with real Dreaming, strengthless to keep Johnny restrained. The realisation that it never had the strength to do so quietly manifests; Johnny must have been mistaken. Aren't dreams funny that way. "Isn't that better?"

[johnny_truant]

He's been lifted out, or the enclosure sloughed; it doesn't matter which, really. Now he's somewhere else, the environment as yet undefined, shadows creeping in around them, waiting to be made into something. He struggles to influence it, to create something safe and familiar, but he's too afraid, and anyway, the dream isn't his to change, not anymore.

Zagreus stands before him in the dark, an unsolicited rescuer. The purple gash stands out brightly on his cheek, its noticeability threatening to catch Johnny's attention and drown him again. Johnny tries to move back, but he finds that Zagreus is holding him, his wrist, by which he'd been dragged out. He gives a slight, experimental tug, twitching away, knowing all too well that it will do him no good.

"No," he whispers, both an answer and a generalized protest.

[antitimelord]

Some people don't know when to be grateful. It seems like Zagreus always has a preponderance of such people in his life. Zagreus makes a little disapproving tsk as the dream settles into something more formed, the drowned melancholy wreck where he'd really made a name for himself in Johnny's mind, however long ago. "I ought to be offended. This is your nightmare?" Zagreus sighs, drops Johnny's wrist in disappointment. It's not like he needs that for a hold on Johnny anyway. Maybe he'll bolt and hang himself. "What has your subconscious trying to swallow you whole this time?"

[johnny_truant]

"None of your fucking business," Johnny snaps, and he does take a hard step back, wanting to run, but he has no idea where to go. The dream settles - this place again. There's never any way out from here. It feels so hopeless, the constant bid for escape from something that half the time lives inside him.

"It has nothing to do with you," he says after a moment, fists clenched at his sides, avoiding eye contact like it'll save him. "Leave me alone."

[antitimelord]

"Well, if you insist." Zagreus' Dreamed wreck starts to decay further, dissolve back into a sharpened version of what it was before he'd intervened. Vague pseudo-oceanic pressure begins to resolve back into the panicked sensation of being trapped. Zagreus of course remains unaffected, as smug as ever with his hands behind his back in the very picture of non-interference, while the floor goes distressingly non-Newtonian around Johnny's feet.

[johnny_truant]

Fuck. Fuck! It's back, everything, in an instant, in a flood of fear and crushing hopelessness. She's there again, waiting to devour him; his thoughts are moving too fast to settle, it doesn't matter who she is, just that he gets out before she finds him. Johnny whips around, or tries to - he can't move, the floor's melting around him, sucking him in. The more he struggles the harder and faster it pulls him, until he's up to his waist. It solidifies around him the moment he stops moving, and in unthinking panic and reflexive action, he tries to brace his hands against it, only succeeding in plunging both arms in as well. He's trapped now, and it's his own fucking fault for coming here, he knows that with the certainty and the disregard for reality that comes along with dreams (dreams are funny that way).

She's here now, with him, coming toward him to wring his story from him, painting his name messily all across her sick, sad letters, closing him up and keeping him here - he can't focus for a minute, too many tangled memories, who is she, who is she to him? When he sees her face, it's not quite right for a moment, no, not her, not the TARDIS, she would never hurt him, would she?

But that's too much like what he thinks about his mother, and if she was meant to appear as someone else it's too late, he's forgotten it now, all he can see is her, stepping toward him, sending a spike of pain through him with every inch of proximity. She's immune to the floor's effects, obviously - it's her trap, why should it endanger her? - and soon she's standing before him. She pauses for a moment before lifting a foot and placing it heavily on his shoulder, pressing down, driving him deeper still.

"No, no!" he begs, terrified, desperate. Zagreus hovers behind him, the cold observer, the pivot of comparative calm. Johnny's too overwhelmed, too beat down by impending, smothering death, to think twice when he twists back and cries for help.

[antitimelord]

Johnny's approaching personification of terror is a vague thing, in the way of dreams. It's not even Zagreus' dream to be vague, and even with subtle parasitic connections to Johnny's mind it's next to impossible to follow his chimeric fears precisely. Johnny doesn't know his own mind, so how can anyone else be expected to? What Zagreus does see, however, has him intrigued again the instant the vision stabilises into something regrettably familiar. Again he has to ask, this is Johnny's nightmare?

No more cold observing here; Zagreus responds to the apparition with gleefully territorial aggression, a net of dreaming influence meant to corrode and dissipate. Notably he does not remove Johnny from the quicksand floor, but at least he's no longer being pushed under.

[johnny_truant]

She's gone. It takes a few moments but she's gone, or contained, or pushed back - flickering and fading and melting away before his eyes, like film burning up. He feels a pang of remorse, no no, this isn't what I wanted, but he's still too panicked to come fully to his senses, still trapped in the press of the floor. Things are warping around him, but he's still here, pinioned at the center of it.

He can breathe a little easier, at least, with her pushed away; this all feels horrendously wrong but he has no choice but to seek assistance, and isn't that always how it goes?

"Help me," he begs, feeling the pull still, terrified that at any moment he'll be swallowed into the suffocating void. "Please!"