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In! In! In! No escaping now: it <span class="mu-i">has</span> you, whether you fit or not, maybe especially because you don't. You couldn't possibly. But you must, so in you go, crunching at first, shriveling and compacting, but <span class="mu-i">that</span> can't account for all of it, so you're sloughing off too, clothes and hair and gore mounding up where you were, screaming, because your mouth is the last to go; screaming, because you still can scream, even while you're all at right angles, even while the color drains, the numbness creeps; screaming until your skull cracks and your brain leaks into the last little gaps and the box slams shut on whatever it is you are. It's that slamming motion that wakes you, not your actual real-life screaming, which you guess you're used to.
You shut your dry mouth. Fuck. Fuck, that was... goddammit. You're whole. Of course you are, because that was poor dumbfuck scaredy Dream You, who can't remember what year it is. Stupid bitch. They can't re-execute you. And it wasn't like that— it didn't melt all the flesh off you, when it happened. Maybe it felt a tiny bit like that, but it didn't really happen. Obviously. You're still here. So's Matches, curled around your big toe.
Fuck. If you try going back to sleep, it'll be the same or worse. Your brain's real inventive, but you wish it shook up the genre a bit. Whatever. Everybody knows the night screaming's you. If they say anything out of turn, you tell them it's the noise their mom made when you fucked her, and that usually shuts it up. You sit up, rub your eyes, and reach around behind your cot for the stash. Camp's supposed to be dry, per Monty, but Monty likes you, and he knows you're not getting hammered or anything. You pull out a canteen and shake it to make sure it's full. Yes. Good. You screw it open and take a hearty swig. Then another for good measure. Then you cough a bit, but only a bit.
You're no pussy, but this isn't what you'd drink for fun. That's fine. It's medicine, basically. Kills the dreams in their cradle. You don't feel good the morning after, but do you ever feel good any morning after? Ha. You screw the canteen back up and re-stash it, then lay back. Fuck you, dreams. Fuck you, Dream You. You're still the boss here, no matter how often you need to prove it.
>END III
