If I do dream, I do not remember it. However, I have a theory that I don't dream...at least not while actually asleep. Rather it comes out as the Random Idea GeneratorTM before I go to sleep, and from there (or simply direct to) into the fanfiction I write.
In which case dear god am I screwed up. Case in point below; would probably help you to be familar with Sailor Moon, and with fanfiction in general, since it descends from a reversal of the unfortunately common godlike author character.
Memory
I remember her face. I doubt I’ll ever forget it. I see it far too often. Not in person, but it haunts my dreams.
I wonder how many ways to interpret that I could come up with.
It’s a kind face, gentle too. It might have suited her once. Scratch that, it did suit her once. I know that better then almost anyone. And it may yet suit her again, though there’s a long series of rather large ifs between that and reality.
She was doing an art class at the high school across the street from where I was taking a college class. A vain attempt to finish my major; I can never afford to frequent one place for that long, that regularly. I can’t really say why we passed from nodding acquitance to mildly friendly in those first two weeks. Maybe I just trusted her appearance then. It was trustworthy at that point, too. She was still what she appeared to be.
Two weeks is traditionally when all hell breaks loose after I meet a Sailor Scout. It didn’t this time, and I thought I was lucky. I should have known better. I wasn’t lucky, she was. She went mad, just as the rest did. She talked to Serena before she talked to me, though, and so learned the direct approach hadn’t worked. She chose to be subtle about it, to play it as if her attentions were natural, and forming naturally. I was too used to them going obviously insane.
I fell for it too. For the image of herself she showed me. It may have been what she was really like once, before the madness. I loved that image. I very nearly walked right into the trap, completely oblivious.
She told me a lot of lies. Some truths too, as all good liars do, mixing the truth in to make lies seem more real. A lot of the personal information about Amara, that was true. The abusive part was complete bullcrap. Amara is mentally and emotionally incapable of it. “Never again” is inscribed deep into her soul. Amara would die before allowing it to happen to another person, kill herself before doing it in person. That’s why I trust Amara more then I ever will anyone else.
But a mountain of lies falls in the face of a single truth. She kept a diary, and accidentally left it in my apartment the day before I would have moved in with her. I happened to glance at what was written on the page as I was moving it from the couch to somewhere safer, so I could return it to her later. I always seem to escape by the slimmest of margins. The next day I told her it was all off, and what I’d seen. I had my gun pointed straight at her the entire time. I had hoped she would walk out, and I could leave without a mess. It was not to be. She turned away, tried to transform, and I had to shoot her before she could start. I shot her in the shoulder; I didn’t want to kill her.
My problems aren’t entirely not my fault. I could solve them permanently. I know where they live. Hell, I could have shot her in the head then and there. Before they transform they’re no tougher then a normal human. Bullets can kill them then. But I don’t kill them. Damn my altrustic nature anyways. In the end my own life is worth nothing compared to theirs. I’m just a guy. They’re super-powered defenders of humanity. Somewhere in the madness they remember this, too. They’re very careful not to hurt normal people who get in the way.
Except her. Of course.
It was during the attack on the new hotel downtown. She was a pretty girl, with pretty red hair. She was hurt, and it was no place for anyone else to be, so I went over to help her get out. Leg was injured, you see. Bleeding. I never got the chance. She died. Not through any action of mine or of her wound, though. No, she was killed. By who? Her, of course. My antagonist. I’d gotten used to the nightmares by then, they didn’t actually bother me so much anymore. She gave me new ones.
She killed the red-haired girl in a jealous rage, spouting nonsense about her threating our relationship. I didn’t even know the girl’s name then, hadn’t spoken to her. I was just walking in that direction. I mean, seriously, what the hell? On the slimmest of evidence she chose to nullify everything that she is, her life’s work. She abdicated her duty and her honor for the flimsiest of reasons. She was a Sailor Scout. Her sole reason for existence was to protect normal people. I had a vague sort of respect for her morals then, since she was the only one who had never decided to kill me. That went poof real fast.
I tried to kill her then. She is the only human I have ever delibrately tried to kill. The only person I have ever delibrately tried to kill, for that matter, since I suppose I need to count Catsy and her sister, who aren’t strictly human. The critters who invade our dimension aren’t people, even if they look human. They don’t bleed the same color I do, and human-like or not, they are soulless and evil. Maybe they weren’t always, but they are by the time I’m dealing with them. I don’t kill Sailor Scouts because they still protect people. They are not wholly evil. And I think they aren’t really doing this of their own accord, the regularity of the symptoms is too much.
It was hopeless, of course. I can’t kill a transformed Sailor Scout. It just isn’t possible, not with the tools I have. I emptied the magazine in the gun and the six more I was carrying, plus the round in the chamber. Normally I save one shot for myself, should it come to that. I didn’t this time. Seven times thirteen, plus one. Ninty-two shots. They had no serious effect. To be sure I made her stumble back a few yards, mass and velocity remain mass and velocity even for a Sailor Scout, even if they don’t actually get hurt. But she didn’t even bruise. I would have been very screwed if not for the intervention of Amara at that point. Sailor Scout strength makes a mockery of anything I can do; Amara hit her once from behind and she crumbled to the ground, unconcious, never knowing what had happened.
I hate her. I thought I’d hated before. That was nothing, doesn’t even count as mild dislike. I will see her dead. It isn’t revenge. I have as much claim to revenge on any of the others, more actually since she’s never tried to kill me. It’s justice. Justice for the pretty girl with pretty red hair, justice for the committing the ultimate crime and the ultimate dereliction of her duty. I found out the girl’s name, later. Sara Pollard. It’s Sara Pollard’s justice, humanity’s justice on one who was supposed to be its defender.
I remember your face, Michelle. And I know you remember mine.
One of us will see the other just before being called to accounts by Saint Peter.
Death is freedom, release from the nightmares. Waking and otherwise. I’m not afraid to die.
Are you?
