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caughtinanetwork2012-04-25 07:30 am
pactum) wrote in caughtinanetwork2012-04-25 07:30 am
Entry tags:
[ dream / video ]
They peer in at him with their cruel, beady eyes and laugh and jeer with long crooked smiles, faces half-hidden by masks so that he couldn't tell them apart even if the light from their candles didn't leave him half-blind. They're faceless and nameless, and it's almost more of an effort than it's worth to struggle when their greedy fingers reach for him, curl as relentless and vice-like as shackles around his bird-boned limbs. Once, they held hot metal to his back, and he had heard and smelt his skin sizzling and cooking almost before he'd felt it. But oh, he had felt it--still feels it, a constant raw stinging hurt which he doesn't dare to touch. Branded like an animal. It isn't surprising; they treat him with less dignity than one. It's all hands and eyes and cold iron bars between his fingers, dirt and blood caked in his hair and between his toes, cuts and scrapes not healing and fresh dark bruises blooming where they've hit him or held him too tight. He's long since given up praying. Mother had promised him that God existed, loving and merciful, but she must have been lying.
He hates them. That hatred is the only thing that keeps him alive. It feeds him when they don't.
He knows, when they come in jewels and silk and velvet, in the largest crowd he's seen yet, that it's his time, as he's seen so many others die, writhing and crying and sobbing, or silent and empty. But he's special, he hears them whisper. He's the Phantomhive boy. He's been so lovely to play with, but now it's time for him to fulfill his intended purpose.
He squirms as they pull him from the cage. Or at least, he thinks he's being pulled from the cage--isn't he? There are hands and faces and chains and is that the stone altar beneath him, or the metal floor of the cage still? He's thrashing, either way, using the last of his strength to kick and scream and claw. He's held down against the stone--he's pressed to the bars--wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and at once there's a knife raised high above him and a sinister hand outstretched before him, sharp black claws beckoning, promising, and he's made his choice, because he will not die here. So he reaches desperately past the bars, and as the knife slices down, as those long fingers wrap tight and binding around his own, his right eye burns and he screams:
"Kill them all!"
[ He wakes with that scream still on his lips. It dies in his throat as soon as he realizes he's awake, and his fingers knot in the bedsheets, white-knuckled and shaking. His chest heaves as he attempts to regain his breath, in and out slowly through his nose, his mouth set in a hard grimace. His hair is a mess, his white night shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin with sweat, and he isn't wearing his eye patch--but that's no matter, really, as the video feed catches him directly from his left.
It's a good few minutes before Ciel notices the blinking light from the Dreamberry on his night table beside the bed, but when he does, he sits up at once, plush comforters and goosefeather pillows tossed wildly aside in his haste. He blocks his right eye from view with one hand and bats the device straight off the table with the other. It clatters to the floor, but doesn't seem to be damaged, and continues to record the ceiling until, after a time, the feed automatically cuts off. ]
He hates them. That hatred is the only thing that keeps him alive. It feeds him when they don't.
He knows, when they come in jewels and silk and velvet, in the largest crowd he's seen yet, that it's his time, as he's seen so many others die, writhing and crying and sobbing, or silent and empty. But he's special, he hears them whisper. He's the Phantomhive boy. He's been so lovely to play with, but now it's time for him to fulfill his intended purpose.
He squirms as they pull him from the cage. Or at least, he thinks he's being pulled from the cage--isn't he? There are hands and faces and chains and is that the stone altar beneath him, or the metal floor of the cage still? He's thrashing, either way, using the last of his strength to kick and scream and claw. He's held down against the stone--he's pressed to the bars--wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and at once there's a knife raised high above him and a sinister hand outstretched before him, sharp black claws beckoning, promising, and he's made his choice, because he will not die here. So he reaches desperately past the bars, and as the knife slices down, as those long fingers wrap tight and binding around his own, his right eye burns and he screams:
"Kill them all!"
[ He wakes with that scream still on his lips. It dies in his throat as soon as he realizes he's awake, and his fingers knot in the bedsheets, white-knuckled and shaking. His chest heaves as he attempts to regain his breath, in and out slowly through his nose, his mouth set in a hard grimace. His hair is a mess, his white night shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin with sweat, and he isn't wearing his eye patch--but that's no matter, really, as the video feed catches him directly from his left.
It's a good few minutes before Ciel notices the blinking light from the Dreamberry on his night table beside the bed, but when he does, he sits up at once, plush comforters and goosefeather pillows tossed wildly aside in his haste. He blocks his right eye from view with one hand and bats the device straight off the table with the other. It clatters to the floor, but doesn't seem to be damaged, and continues to record the ceiling until, after a time, the feed automatically cuts off. ]
no subject
Freud? An interesting selection, my lord. One can't help but wonder under whose recommendation this came about.
[ Of course, he knows its really none of his business. ]
no subject
[ Ciel's annoyance is an obvious indicator that Sebastian's words have touched on something. he glares balefully up at his butler, fingers curling firmly--defiantly--around the spine of the book. ]
no subject
[ Oh and indeed he's struck a chord. One he's tempted to poke just a little more because that's how they roll. But maybe he'll save that for another time.
Maybe. ]
I daresay the doctor has rather eclectic tastes.
no subject
I cannot see how his tastes are of any concern to you.
no subject
[ He sees the scrutiny and he just can't help but allow that smirk to curl on his lips again. ]
However, I can certainly see why my lord would hold the slightest interest in him. There seems to be a measure of something beneath the surface. However, it certainly is, as you've said, none of my concern.
[ And a nod. ]
I bid you goodnight then, sir.
no subject
Quite so. None of your concern at all. Good night, Sebastian.
[ though Ciel isn't looking at him, the way the word is stressed carries a clear connotation: 'and don't make me say it again.' ]