Miranda Ward Mez dreams
by Anonymous | Score: 6250
shouldn't know. Something is crawling in her head. A
like the little legs of a fly. It flickers between her ears and crawls down the back of her throat, over her teeth, like a passive dentist, taking stock and leaving every time she tries to focus on it. There is nothing left behind, even when she starts t
in her dreams. It says so much and never says anything. Often times it stands at the food of her bed and watches over her, like sometwisted metal amalgum guardian angel.
Guarding her from what? It won't tell. It never tells. Just talks. Talks and talks and talks. Voice alternating from gravely and deep to small and wishbone light, crackling under the slightest pressure. The AC could blow away its voice. If it knew the thing existed. If it could detect it.
No one else sees the ro
their sleep. No one else says a
it. Miranda doesn't say anything about it either. She keeps her mouth shut and goes about her work, even when the nightmares wake her up with a jarring start every morning and she feels terrible and nothing feels real anymore. Business consultants come from ESEF, wondering, asking questions. They are uncertain of the nature of Miranda and the teams work and they are authorized never to ask. It makes it easier to lie to them that everything is fine. About everything, actually. Miranda lies about their stock, on accident, blinded by fatigue and exhaustion. She hears the th
whispering to her through the walls. It wants her back. It wants her to listen to its terrible, vivid song. It sounds like the plucking of pianto keys. Soft as ivory and solid obsidian. It is sweet except when it is not. Then Mrianda wishes she could leave
The on-site therapist asks her questions. Probes about why she looks so bad and why she's stopped talking to the others. At one point, Miranda confided in Hank about the nightmares. The shrink brings that up.
No talking to Hank anymore, then. Traitor.
Miranda sts in the small room, across from the shrink, watching the little bobblehead on her keychain dangle and shift every time she moves. Focusing on that fels more real than answering teh incessant questions.
The robot says sometthing intelligleable. Miranda tries to listen.
Death. Something about a death. Something about a death that has not ended.
Miranda glances up, meets the eyes of the therapist like two trains hitting each other at top speed. The noise is deafening. The noise is frusturation and noise and horns.
Croaks the robot.
Miranda can't hear of the frenetic ringing in her ears. The terrible, fluffy sound of nails scraping against her skull. In her teeth. In her jaw. She focuses. focuses. Can't focus. She's slipping. The therapist asks her something. She slips out of her chair and onto the floor, barely feeling it when she hits the