CaptainWacky
I want to smell dark matter
Charles Horse knew it was one of those nights where he wouldn't be able to sleep. He was anticipating something. Perhaps he was anticipationg his inability to sleep. If only he could stop doing that. But it was too late. His body didn't obey his commands - or it obeyed some of his commands but then wouldn't stop obeying them when he tried to cancel the command. He would be up all night. Maybe an hour or two before he got up. Maybe.
What would he spend this extra six or more hours thinking about? He should use it, he agreed with himself. He should spend his time awake solving all his problems. Making a plans. Having some profound plot. Writing his book (in his head.) Something. SOMETHING.
He just screwd up his eyes instead and said "HA HA HA HA HA" out loud. Why should he fucking do anything? He was just going to die anyway. Life was a fucking con. Come up with a book in your head, die the next day. Why try?
Why NOT try? You only get one life...
No. Fuck that. No point. And really, it was because he'd never be able to come up with a book in his head. He'd never be able to come up with anything. Nothing anybody else would be interesting in anyway. He was too fucking dumb. His brain never fully grew. Or something. He wasn't sure what it was. But he wasn't the kind of person who did anything.
He turned over onto his back. His stomach was feeling acidy. Why? Why did it care? Why was he getting anxious when he knew the truth? It didn't matter. He was just going to die. Why be anxious? Why think? Why laugh like a mad man? Why fucking exist.
"HA HA HA HA HA."
He remembered that time he'd thought he had appendicitis because his stomach felt like this. How fucking stupid he'd been.
He lay back and tried not to think about anything. The physical symptoms of his anxiety were wearing him out. They would go away eventually. Everything would go away.
Spock was asking him to scan for lifeforms. He was looking into that big scanner scope thing Spock used. He could see tiny microbes, dancing. He was worried that Spock wouldn't believe him. He just kept staring at the microbes. They were smiling and laughing. He knew Spock was getting angry. He knew the Vulcan was going to grab his should and pull him backwards...
He jolted up in bed. He had fallen asleep. But then he'd woken up against because he'd been scared of Spock grabbing him. He couldn't even have a Star Trek dream right. His heart was racing a bit. He lay back again with his eyes shut. It had worked before.
He couldn't really tell how much time was passing. Sometimes he'd look at the clock and 20 minutes had gone by without him thinking. Sometimes he'd look and the clock would still be at the same time. It was all the same.
He was late for school. He hurried down the moving walkway which led down the street. He had to jump over a dog someone was walking coming towards him. We had on the wrong side of the moving walkway? He couldn't remember the rules. His school was huge and had turrets. He had to get to class, but which one? He was making his way through a giant corridor. A girl was talking to a horse in the corner. He had to find his timetable. He searched through his school bag. It was full of Christmas cards and egg shells. He found his timetable at last, but it was ripped to pieces. He looked up for help, but the girl and the horse were gone. He walked down the corridor and found a moving painting of World War 2 at the end. People being shot to pieces on the beach. Churchill was in the background, waving his arms around. He could not look away from it. He felt his own arm being blown off by machine gone fire. Shit. He had to get to the hospital. There was a door so he opened it. He was in a classroom. Everyone was looking at him. They looked impatient. He wondered if they had noticed his arm. The teacher told him to sit down, but there was a girl in his chair. He tried to ask her to move, but he couldn't speak. He was suddenly holding her with his arms. He had two. She looked annoyed. He wanted to tell her he couldn't possibly be doing this becaue he only had one arm. Everyone was approaching him now...
He woke up again. It wasn't as bad as last time, but he still felt the jolt. He sighed. 5:22 am. That wasn't even close to when he'd wake up. He didn't even have to pee yet. All he could do was try to get to sleep again.
After some length of time, he noticed his bedroom was bigger. It felt right. He tried to think about it too much. He had two televisions. Was that right? It must have been. He looked out the window. Yep, that was the street he lived in. And such detail. This couldn't be a dream. He could never imagine something like that. And there was his cat. Her hair was the wrong colour, but it was definitley her...
It was a dream, the cat was dead. It was 7:12 and he still didn't have to pee.
Maybe he could write a book about his experiences this night, he though. He turn over onto his right side and write the book. He rolled over...and felt the acid rise in his throat. He hadn't been about to feel it when he'd been sleeping. He rolled onto his back then his left side. The damage was already done though. Why couldn't he just keep dreaming?
It was only then that he remembered it had been New Year's Eve and it was 2025 now.
"HA HA HA HA HA."
What would he spend this extra six or more hours thinking about? He should use it, he agreed with himself. He should spend his time awake solving all his problems. Making a plans. Having some profound plot. Writing his book (in his head.) Something. SOMETHING.
He just screwd up his eyes instead and said "HA HA HA HA HA" out loud. Why should he fucking do anything? He was just going to die anyway. Life was a fucking con. Come up with a book in your head, die the next day. Why try?
Why NOT try? You only get one life...
No. Fuck that. No point. And really, it was because he'd never be able to come up with a book in his head. He'd never be able to come up with anything. Nothing anybody else would be interesting in anyway. He was too fucking dumb. His brain never fully grew. Or something. He wasn't sure what it was. But he wasn't the kind of person who did anything.
He turned over onto his back. His stomach was feeling acidy. Why? Why did it care? Why was he getting anxious when he knew the truth? It didn't matter. He was just going to die. Why be anxious? Why think? Why laugh like a mad man? Why fucking exist.
"HA HA HA HA HA."
He remembered that time he'd thought he had appendicitis because his stomach felt like this. How fucking stupid he'd been.
He lay back and tried not to think about anything. The physical symptoms of his anxiety were wearing him out. They would go away eventually. Everything would go away.
Spock was asking him to scan for lifeforms. He was looking into that big scanner scope thing Spock used. He could see tiny microbes, dancing. He was worried that Spock wouldn't believe him. He just kept staring at the microbes. They were smiling and laughing. He knew Spock was getting angry. He knew the Vulcan was going to grab his should and pull him backwards...
He jolted up in bed. He had fallen asleep. But then he'd woken up against because he'd been scared of Spock grabbing him. He couldn't even have a Star Trek dream right. His heart was racing a bit. He lay back again with his eyes shut. It had worked before.
He couldn't really tell how much time was passing. Sometimes he'd look at the clock and 20 minutes had gone by without him thinking. Sometimes he'd look and the clock would still be at the same time. It was all the same.
He was late for school. He hurried down the moving walkway which led down the street. He had to jump over a dog someone was walking coming towards him. We had on the wrong side of the moving walkway? He couldn't remember the rules. His school was huge and had turrets. He had to get to class, but which one? He was making his way through a giant corridor. A girl was talking to a horse in the corner. He had to find his timetable. He searched through his school bag. It was full of Christmas cards and egg shells. He found his timetable at last, but it was ripped to pieces. He looked up for help, but the girl and the horse were gone. He walked down the corridor and found a moving painting of World War 2 at the end. People being shot to pieces on the beach. Churchill was in the background, waving his arms around. He could not look away from it. He felt his own arm being blown off by machine gone fire. Shit. He had to get to the hospital. There was a door so he opened it. He was in a classroom. Everyone was looking at him. They looked impatient. He wondered if they had noticed his arm. The teacher told him to sit down, but there was a girl in his chair. He tried to ask her to move, but he couldn't speak. He was suddenly holding her with his arms. He had two. She looked annoyed. He wanted to tell her he couldn't possibly be doing this becaue he only had one arm. Everyone was approaching him now...
He woke up again. It wasn't as bad as last time, but he still felt the jolt. He sighed. 5:22 am. That wasn't even close to when he'd wake up. He didn't even have to pee yet. All he could do was try to get to sleep again.
After some length of time, he noticed his bedroom was bigger. It felt right. He tried to think about it too much. He had two televisions. Was that right? It must have been. He looked out the window. Yep, that was the street he lived in. And such detail. This couldn't be a dream. He could never imagine something like that. And there was his cat. Her hair was the wrong colour, but it was definitley her...
It was a dream, the cat was dead. It was 7:12 and he still didn't have to pee.
Maybe he could write a book about his experiences this night, he though. He turn over onto his right side and write the book. He rolled over...and felt the acid rise in his throat. He hadn't been about to feel it when he'd been sleeping. He rolled onto his back then his left side. The damage was already done though. Why couldn't he just keep dreaming?
It was only then that he remembered it had been New Year's Eve and it was 2025 now.
"HA HA HA HA HA."