Before, he never slept. He'd spend days running from it, take any pill he could, legal or not, drank pot after pot of coffee -- ran, literally, sometimes, because holding still would make it so much harder to stay awake. It is impossible for the human body to not sleep and it caught up to him eventually, weakened him with microsleeps, fogged his brain until he could no longer function and then dragged him under with the bad dreams. The ones where he always died, and they felt so real, like memories -- he'd wake sweating and screaming and still feeling the knife in his throat, the bullet in his eye, the loss of a leg.
Now sleep is all he does. For hours. Sometimes at least half his day is spent asleep on whatever surface he collapses on first -- if not his bed, then a desk, the kitchen table. The floor. It's annoying but it's not so bad, because sometimes there are no dreams at all and the ones that do come are softer. They're still memories, but they're as often good as they are bad. In most of them, he's still a child, and he remembers parents that aren't truly his anymore, friends he's never actually met. The rest are usually women.
That's why he doesn't realise immediately that this is anything but really real; it doesn't have the same feel to it, that sense of memory, a soft sort of deja vu. And he isn't used to being a man.
He also has no idea where he is, which is going to be a little embarrassing later, and that is wrong. He always knows exactly where he is because he lived there once.
This can't be real, but it has to be real, it's not one of his dreams so it has to be real, but it can't be because he's in Baedal, unless Baedal ejected him again, but it should have sent him home, this isn't real, it is real, it can't be real, is he dead?, it --
He sees something moving -- something big and mean, what is that, a dog or something? what the fuck is that? -- and he swears under his breath and ducks behind a building. His hands are starting to shake, not from fear of it -- although there's a bit of that, too -- but at the sudden raging doubt about whether or not anything he is witnessing is hallucination. He doesn't, in the way of normal dreams, realise that he is dreaming.
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Now sleep is all he does. For hours. Sometimes at least half his day is spent asleep on whatever surface he collapses on first -- if not his bed, then a desk, the kitchen table. The floor. It's annoying but it's not so bad, because sometimes there are no dreams at all and the ones that do come are softer. They're still memories, but they're as often good as they are bad. In most of them, he's still a child, and he remembers parents that aren't truly his anymore, friends he's never actually met. The rest are usually women.
That's why he doesn't realise immediately that this is anything but really real; it doesn't have the same feel to it, that sense of memory, a soft sort of deja vu. And he isn't used to being a man.
He also has no idea where he is, which is going to be a little embarrassing later, and that is wrong. He always knows exactly where he is because he lived there once.
This can't be real, but it has to be real, it's not one of his dreams so it has to be real, but it can't be because he's in Baedal, unless Baedal ejected him again, but it should have sent him home, this isn't real, it is real, it can't be real, is he dead?, it --
He sees something moving -- something big and mean, what is that, a dog or something? what the fuck is that? -- and he swears under his breath and ducks behind a building. His hands are starting to shake, not from fear of it -- although there's a bit of that, too -- but at the sudden raging doubt about whether or not anything he is witnessing is hallucination. He doesn't, in the way of normal dreams, realise that he is dreaming.
Either this is real or he's mad.