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witticasterEverything I wrote is terrible, why did I think any of it was a good idea, I am a terrible writer with no good ideas.
Et cetera.
"You're through, Captain Charwood!" the Grey Emperor cackled, reaching for the lever which would surely see Julius dropped headfirst into a vat of sickly green acid.
He struggled in the iron manacles binding his wrists and ankles, the heavy scent of burning hair--for that was what this particular acid smelled of--filling him with dread. "No--wait!" he called, giving the thin, shrouded man before him the most beseeching look he might. "You haven't even told me what this is for! What on Earth do you think you're going to achieve by killing me?"
"You would like to know that, wouldn't you?" The Grey Emperor gave him an awful smile, all withered flesh and bloodied teeth. "You people always do. Well--"
The Grey Emperor's thin, hissing voice was suddenly replaced by a hoarse, incoherent shout, and Julius' first thought upon slipping from his dream was regret that he would never find out what his subconscious had planned for him. Groaning, he turned his head toward the sound and blinked blearily, looking for Kay. His eyes flew wide at the sight before him: Where Kay had lain last night now sat a child, a little girl with mussed auburn hair and huge brown eyes in a fearful face.
Julius kicked the covers off himself, his mind moving not quickly so much as instinctually; only he could be the reason for her distress, and that meant he must scramble off the bed as quickly as he could, backing away towards the loo door. The facts settled far more easily into his mind than they might have, had he been properly awake when presented with a panicked child. In his current state, it seemed only logical that, were his wife missing, the little girl left in her place (who was now bent double, a cough wracking her thin frame) must somehow be her. By virtue of being both red-haired and sickly, after all, she matched the most essential facts he knew of Kay's childhood, after all.
He knew that he must speak soon, before she had the chance to tire herself out or bust his eardrums with her cries for her father. In the brief pause between the coughing and the shouting, he asked tentatively, "Kay?"
She stared at him, her mouth half-open (presumably to shout again), but said nothing. It seemed confirmation enough of Julius' hypothesis, especially as he studied her face more carefully: the eyes were familiar, undeniably so, though they were rather more sunken in her face than he recalled. That could be blamed on her perpetual illnesses, though. They were huge and dark, the correct shape, and at that moment, about to overflow with tears.
Taking the opportunity offered to him--if he must be so frightening a sight to behold, he might as well use his time to get a word in edgewise--Julius put up his hands and spoke quickly, hoping he didn't look aggressive. "My name is Julius, please don't be afraid." She did. "I'm not sure how you've arrived here, but I won't hurt you, I swear."
Judging by her expression, he wasn't at all convincing as an innocent man; tears spilled onto her cheeks, her voice catching in the near-hiccup that accompanied children's sobs. "Where--where am I?"
Julius took a step towards the bed, freezing in his place when she cringed back from him. He froze, his heart clenching. Kay--someday his wife, someday the person he loved most in the world--was frightened of him, as though he would harm her. As though he could. Swallowing hard, he glanced away, trying to think of nothing but answering her question. "We're in Manhattan. When you grow up, we write stories together." He paused. "I'll leave you alone now."
If she flinched again when he walked around the bed toward the door, he didn't see it, his eyes on the far wall the entire time. Julius moved quickly, managing to slip out to the lounge before her cries began in earnest and once there, tried to shut his ears to the sound. There was, after all, nothing he could do for comfort when the sight of him was as an eldritch horror to her.
After some time--he couldn't be sure how long he'd sat on the settee, thinking of little beyond what suit he would wear that day--the muffled sobs coming from the bedroom abated. His ears didn't pick up the quiet until it was broken once more, though, this time by a sharp, painful sounding burst of coughs. The Kay who had been brought forward in time, whyever God had found it necessary to torment them both so, it seemed that she'd arrived in a period of illness. From what she'd said about her childhood, Julius recalled, it might have been more remarkable if she had arrived healthy.
The coughing continued, and despite his misgivings, Julius got up to poke through the medicines in the kitchen, where a bottle of cough syrup was stashed away somewhere in the cupboards. He knew from experience that the stuff tasted vile--he'd complained so vehemently of the taste that Kay had bribed him with a kiss for a spoonful, rather than listen to him attempt to soldier on without--but if it would soothe the poor girl's cough, perhaps Kay would take it, regardless of the colour of the hand offering it.
He couldn't, after all, convince himself that his complexion was incidental in Kay's frightened mind. Doing so required forgetting the cool reception they'd received when they'd visited her family that summer, not to mention the momentary apprehension in her face when he'd first approached her so many years ago.
---
"Sometimes I thought I was going to die," Kay said, entirely intent on dipping a piece of toast into her little bowl of soup. "But I guess I don't."
"Oh, no," Julius told her, wanting nothing so much at that moment as to hug her close and reassure her as best he could. The wary friendship they'd settled into wasn't enough to convince him to try, however; when she was once more herself, then he would see about wrapping his arms about her and never letting go. "You're twenty-seven now, and you shan't die any time soon."
With a shrug, she nibbled at the bread, now dripping with chicken broth. Julius wondered exactly how poor her health must have been that she could think of death with such apparent banality. "Good. I don't want to die."
"I'm glad we're agreed on that." He glanced over to the wall clock. Eight already, and she did seem as though she was beginning to droop; she was no longer eating so much as playing with her food, resting her head on one hand. "Well, I'm afraid we can't go out this evening, since you're not feeling well, but we could listen to the radio or read something, if you like."
Kay perked up a little at the latter suggestion. "Read me something we wrote--" she began, her breath suddenly overtaken by a fit of hoarse coughs. Julius waited, folding his hands on the tabletop so he wouldn't ball them into fists. When she'd finally caught herself, she finished with a breathless, "Please?"
"Gladly. But first, you need some more cough syrup." He stood, going for a clean spoon from the drawer. "If you take care, you can take it on the settee, and we'll read something straightaway after."
"The settee?"
"The sofa," he said, picking up the bottle of cough syrup. "The davenport."
"Oh." She slid out of her chair and, holding up the front of the long dressing gown, made her way over to sofa. Seeing her curl into one corner, her back against the arm of the sofa, and her cheek pressed to the back cushion, Julius sat down an arm's length away, poured a spoonful of medicine, and held it out to her.
He took a seat at the other corner, after putting the medicine and spoon back on the kitchen counter and grabbing a copy of Incredible Tales from a sidetable. No sense in coming too close; Julius was not yet convinced that he would not be greeted with more screaming if he dared.
Et cetera.
"You're through, Captain Charwood!" the Grey Emperor cackled, reaching for the lever which would surely see Julius dropped headfirst into a vat of sickly green acid.
He struggled in the iron manacles binding his wrists and ankles, the heavy scent of burning hair--for that was what this particular acid smelled of--filling him with dread. "No--wait!" he called, giving the thin, shrouded man before him the most beseeching look he might. "You haven't even told me what this is for! What on Earth do you think you're going to achieve by killing me?"
"You would like to know that, wouldn't you?" The Grey Emperor gave him an awful smile, all withered flesh and bloodied teeth. "You people always do. Well--"
The Grey Emperor's thin, hissing voice was suddenly replaced by a hoarse, incoherent shout, and Julius' first thought upon slipping from his dream was regret that he would never find out what his subconscious had planned for him. Groaning, he turned his head toward the sound and blinked blearily, looking for Kay. His eyes flew wide at the sight before him: Where Kay had lain last night now sat a child, a little girl with mussed auburn hair and huge brown eyes in a fearful face.
Julius kicked the covers off himself, his mind moving not quickly so much as instinctually; only he could be the reason for her distress, and that meant he must scramble off the bed as quickly as he could, backing away towards the loo door. The facts settled far more easily into his mind than they might have, had he been properly awake when presented with a panicked child. In his current state, it seemed only logical that, were his wife missing, the little girl left in her place (who was now bent double, a cough wracking her thin frame) must somehow be her. By virtue of being both red-haired and sickly, after all, she matched the most essential facts he knew of Kay's childhood, after all.
He knew that he must speak soon, before she had the chance to tire herself out or bust his eardrums with her cries for her father. In the brief pause between the coughing and the shouting, he asked tentatively, "Kay?"
She stared at him, her mouth half-open (presumably to shout again), but said nothing. It seemed confirmation enough of Julius' hypothesis, especially as he studied her face more carefully: the eyes were familiar, undeniably so, though they were rather more sunken in her face than he recalled. That could be blamed on her perpetual illnesses, though. They were huge and dark, the correct shape, and at that moment, about to overflow with tears.
Taking the opportunity offered to him--if he must be so frightening a sight to behold, he might as well use his time to get a word in edgewise--Julius put up his hands and spoke quickly, hoping he didn't look aggressive. "My name is Julius, please don't be afraid." She did. "I'm not sure how you've arrived here, but I won't hurt you, I swear."
Judging by her expression, he wasn't at all convincing as an innocent man; tears spilled onto her cheeks, her voice catching in the near-hiccup that accompanied children's sobs. "Where--where am I?"
Julius took a step towards the bed, freezing in his place when she cringed back from him. He froze, his heart clenching. Kay--someday his wife, someday the person he loved most in the world--was frightened of him, as though he would harm her. As though he could. Swallowing hard, he glanced away, trying to think of nothing but answering her question. "We're in Manhattan. When you grow up, we write stories together." He paused. "I'll leave you alone now."
If she flinched again when he walked around the bed toward the door, he didn't see it, his eyes on the far wall the entire time. Julius moved quickly, managing to slip out to the lounge before her cries began in earnest and once there, tried to shut his ears to the sound. There was, after all, nothing he could do for comfort when the sight of him was as an eldritch horror to her.
After some time--he couldn't be sure how long he'd sat on the settee, thinking of little beyond what suit he would wear that day--the muffled sobs coming from the bedroom abated. His ears didn't pick up the quiet until it was broken once more, though, this time by a sharp, painful sounding burst of coughs. The Kay who had been brought forward in time, whyever God had found it necessary to torment them both so, it seemed that she'd arrived in a period of illness. From what she'd said about her childhood, Julius recalled, it might have been more remarkable if she had arrived healthy.
The coughing continued, and despite his misgivings, Julius got up to poke through the medicines in the kitchen, where a bottle of cough syrup was stashed away somewhere in the cupboards. He knew from experience that the stuff tasted vile--he'd complained so vehemently of the taste that Kay had bribed him with a kiss for a spoonful, rather than listen to him attempt to soldier on without--but if it would soothe the poor girl's cough, perhaps Kay would take it, regardless of the colour of the hand offering it.
He couldn't, after all, convince himself that his complexion was incidental in Kay's frightened mind. Doing so required forgetting the cool reception they'd received when they'd visited her family that summer, not to mention the momentary apprehension in her face when he'd first approached her so many years ago.
---
"Sometimes I thought I was going to die," Kay said, entirely intent on dipping a piece of toast into her little bowl of soup. "But I guess I don't."
"Oh, no," Julius told her, wanting nothing so much at that moment as to hug her close and reassure her as best he could. The wary friendship they'd settled into wasn't enough to convince him to try, however; when she was once more herself, then he would see about wrapping his arms about her and never letting go. "You're twenty-seven now, and you shan't die any time soon."
With a shrug, she nibbled at the bread, now dripping with chicken broth. Julius wondered exactly how poor her health must have been that she could think of death with such apparent banality. "Good. I don't want to die."
"I'm glad we're agreed on that." He glanced over to the wall clock. Eight already, and she did seem as though she was beginning to droop; she was no longer eating so much as playing with her food, resting her head on one hand. "Well, I'm afraid we can't go out this evening, since you're not feeling well, but we could listen to the radio or read something, if you like."
Kay perked up a little at the latter suggestion. "Read me something we wrote--" she began, her breath suddenly overtaken by a fit of hoarse coughs. Julius waited, folding his hands on the tabletop so he wouldn't ball them into fists. When she'd finally caught herself, she finished with a breathless, "Please?"
"Gladly. But first, you need some more cough syrup." He stood, going for a clean spoon from the drawer. "If you take care, you can take it on the settee, and we'll read something straightaway after."
"The settee?"
"The sofa," he said, picking up the bottle of cough syrup. "The davenport."
"Oh." She slid out of her chair and, holding up the front of the long dressing gown, made her way over to sofa. Seeing her curl into one corner, her back against the arm of the sofa, and her cheek pressed to the back cushion, Julius sat down an arm's length away, poured a spoonful of medicine, and held it out to her.
He took a seat at the other corner, after putting the medicine and spoon back on the kitchen counter and grabbing a copy of Incredible Tales from a sidetable. No sense in coming too close; Julius was not yet convinced that he would not be greeted with more screaming if he dared.
