The Big Applesauce Dreaming

[[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.

[[ooc: This post is Jazzy Approved for Zagreus visitations: we have a standing agreement that Johnny has a little hallucinatory Zagreus running around in his subconscious, just giving a face and a voice to Johnny's preexisting issues.]]



It's hard to say Johnny's dreams are getting worse when they've always been terrible. Sleep has been an enemy for a long time, and it's no different now. What's changed are the circumstances. More and more he dreams communally, or finds himself an active participant in someone else's nightshow. More and more, the poison left in his head manifests into the predator that put it there, sneering at him from the dark, whispering lessons into his ear.

Tonight Johnny sits in a circle of blood, at the center of an endless room, its walls too distant to be perceived; infinity frightens him, dizzies him, and he curls over himself, wanting to be found.

Zagreus stalks around him outside the lines, as if unable to cross. "You can't hide there forever," he says.

"You're not welcome here," Johnny retorts, a tired refrain.

"That old chestnut." Zagreus chuckles and stops, his feet coming as close as they can to the bloody threshold. He leans over, precariously balanced, until he's close enough to curl his fingers into Johnny’s hair. "It's always you who welcomes me, Truant."

Johnny holds himself stiffly, corpselike, incapable of movement, positioned like a stone. Not tonight. Not tonight.

His fingers sink into the hard wood, crack it apart beneath his enemy's feet. Zagreus staggers back, forced to release him. Johnny experiments, twisting the floor harder, pushing the invader away. Wishful thinking though it may be, this action is not insignifcant: a symbolic resistance against a symbolic entity, and Johnny knows, somewhere, that his power is about establishing domain.

Zagreus waits and watches him hungrily on the outskirts and Johnny turns his attention away. To break the floor is not enough. He wants to be elsewhere.

He slips aside, trading the blood circle for one made of stones, piled neatly, only ankle high. He steps out of it gingerly. The walls are no longer distant, but invisible: made from glass. Sunlight pours through it. This is better. His muscles relax. His guard lets down, just enough.

"Should have stayed put," whispers the voice, so close behind him now. Johnny wants to run, or better, to shatter the whole enclosure, but Zagreus' hands are in his hair and on his throat, holding him back. Johnny struggles with an adrenaline burst of violence, but he's always been shit at defending himself from his own demons. "Should have stayed there in the dark, Johnny dear."