Howard Bassem (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
onepassingnight2012-07-16 10:47 pm
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in onepassingnight2012-07-16 10:47 pm
Entry tags:
Which Habits to Keep and Which Habits to Break [Open]
Just because Howard knows he's dreaming doesn't mean he can wake up. He tries, reminds himself, this is a dream, pinches himself in the dark, but he stays where he is, kneeling in someone's backyard at sunset. Dirt up to his elbows, and he's burying human body parts, except they aren't really body parts. They're more like pieces of oversized dolls than anything else, no blood or anything. But definitely flesh. Clean flesh.
He sits back on his heels and starts to dig the dirt from under his fingernails. His hands hurt, his shoulders are tense, and there are still so many pieces left to bury. He can't quite explain why he's doing it, except that there is some oppressive sense of dread if he stops. It's starting to soak in now, so he picks up a disembodied hand and tosses it into the shallow pit.
There are all sorts of things in the pit; alcohol bottles, baby toys, a t-shirt with a spatter of blood down the front. He squints and tries to remember how all these things got here, then figures it's irrelevant and tosses an anklebone in. The sun's setting, and he has to get all of these covered or else he starts over; the strange logic of the dream dictates this.
It's hard work, and seems an unfair task for someone of his meager stature, and in the dream he's exhausted and starving again. His skin hangs away like the sails of a ship. He sits back on the dried, yellow grass and runs dirty hands over his face - he can feel all too clearly the sockets of his eyes.
But there isn't time to waste energy stressing out about what he can't change (the task, the hunger, the fact that he's not yet awake) and so he gets back to digging.
He sits back on his heels and starts to dig the dirt from under his fingernails. His hands hurt, his shoulders are tense, and there are still so many pieces left to bury. He can't quite explain why he's doing it, except that there is some oppressive sense of dread if he stops. It's starting to soak in now, so he picks up a disembodied hand and tosses it into the shallow pit.
There are all sorts of things in the pit; alcohol bottles, baby toys, a t-shirt with a spatter of blood down the front. He squints and tries to remember how all these things got here, then figures it's irrelevant and tosses an anklebone in. The sun's setting, and he has to get all of these covered or else he starts over; the strange logic of the dream dictates this.
It's hard work, and seems an unfair task for someone of his meager stature, and in the dream he's exhausted and starving again. His skin hangs away like the sails of a ship. He sits back on the dried, yellow grass and runs dirty hands over his face - he can feel all too clearly the sockets of his eyes.
But there isn't time to waste energy stressing out about what he can't change (the task, the hunger, the fact that he's not yet awake) and so he gets back to digging.