Nightmare Time
Aug. 2nd, 2012 12:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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mdc_universeWho: Jason Todd (The Red Hood) and Mindy Walker-Hayes (Purple Haze)
What: Jason's nightmares once again get the better of him. He shares awkward bonding time with Mindy.
When: Middle of the night, maybe some time after one in the morning.
Where: Red Hood's Gotham apartment
Interactions: Closed.
Warnings: Language, recalled violence for now. Will update as needed.
Jason had meant every word he'd said to Bruce-- Bruce, dammit, no matter what everyone else was inclined to say and believe lately-- that night in that ratty old apartment building. The former ward-- estranged son-- had forgiven his second father long ago for not saving him. For his death.
What he hadn't said or even mentioned was that he could never forget his death either. The Lazarus Pit restored him completely, enhanced him, but it also kept that moment bright and vivid. Where for coma victims, perhaps, or others suffering massive head trauma like he had, the memory might have faded, become blurred, or even been wiped clean. For Jason, however, every night was an exercise in the futility of staying awake until he could no longer function without rest.
Then it was time for his dreams to take over. Sometimes he viewed it ironically, a kind of self-imposed flagellation to make him atone for the wrongs he was doing to keep things right. It didn't help, but it was one way to look at things.
"Now hang on ... that look like it hurt a lot more," the voice in his dreams uttered. Each blow from the crowbar echoed in his skull, feeling all the same as if he were being beaten even now. Whomever said a person couldn't feel pain in their sleep should have been shot. "So let's clear this up, okay pumpkin? What hurts more?"
"A? or B? Forehand ... or back-hand?"
And then, later rather than sooner, it was over, his tormentor was gone, and he was alone. Every movement hurt, he knew every step, how every step would turn out, but he couldn't stop. He was Sisyphus in all that mattered, doomed to forever try and roll this rock of his uphill. He knew the door would be locked. He knew the bombs were there before he looked (again). He knew he had to make peace with facts, because he knew he was going to die.
What he always forgot, and was reminded time and again, was what it felt like to be hit by the explosion.
He awoke screaming, same as usual. His throat raw, same as usual. The same old, sick feelings.
Same as usual.
"God damn it, Bruce," he choked out, and just as usual, he couldn't tell if it was rage or a sob strangling his throat.
What: Jason's nightmares once again get the better of him. He shares awkward bonding time with Mindy.
When: Middle of the night, maybe some time after one in the morning.
Where: Red Hood's Gotham apartment
Interactions: Closed.
Warnings: Language, recalled violence for now. Will update as needed.
Jason had meant every word he'd said to Bruce-- Bruce, dammit, no matter what everyone else was inclined to say and believe lately-- that night in that ratty old apartment building. The former ward-- estranged son-- had forgiven his second father long ago for not saving him. For his death.
What he hadn't said or even mentioned was that he could never forget his death either. The Lazarus Pit restored him completely, enhanced him, but it also kept that moment bright and vivid. Where for coma victims, perhaps, or others suffering massive head trauma like he had, the memory might have faded, become blurred, or even been wiped clean. For Jason, however, every night was an exercise in the futility of staying awake until he could no longer function without rest.
Then it was time for his dreams to take over. Sometimes he viewed it ironically, a kind of self-imposed flagellation to make him atone for the wrongs he was doing to keep things right. It didn't help, but it was one way to look at things.
"Now hang on ... that look like it hurt a lot more," the voice in his dreams uttered. Each blow from the crowbar echoed in his skull, feeling all the same as if he were being beaten even now. Whomever said a person couldn't feel pain in their sleep should have been shot. "So let's clear this up, okay pumpkin? What hurts more?"
"A? or B? Forehand ... or back-hand?"
And then, later rather than sooner, it was over, his tormentor was gone, and he was alone. Every movement hurt, he knew every step, how every step would turn out, but he couldn't stop. He was Sisyphus in all that mattered, doomed to forever try and roll this rock of his uphill. He knew the door would be locked. He knew the bombs were there before he looked (again). He knew he had to make peace with facts, because he knew he was going to die.
What he always forgot, and was reminded time and again, was what it felt like to be hit by the explosion.
He awoke screaming, same as usual. His throat raw, same as usual. The same old, sick feelings.
Same as usual.
"God damn it, Bruce," he choked out, and just as usual, he couldn't tell if it was rage or a sob strangling his throat.