DystopianTale (Undertale AU)

~Chapter 16~

Tw: Past abuse mentioned

Dream groaned as he turned over to his side, pulling his sheets up to his chin and glaring at the darkness as if it had personally offended him. It was late, too late, and the black of night coated Dream's bedroom like a weighted blanket, ready to engulf him. Considering how exhausted the Prince was, that should have been a comfort, should have helped lull him into sleep. Sleep where he was safe and wasn't boggled down by worries and fear and confusion.

Instead he was stuck tossing and turning in bed, his head too full and his soul aching.

The past three months felt like a blur of pain and turmoil - occasionally his Father would get Dream to come out of his room to meet with the press for interviews, but more often than not Dream was stuck in his room. At least his hand was healed, and besides a few smacks here and there, Gaster hadn't hurt him again. Though the threat of that always hung over Dream's head, coiling around his neck and ready to squeeze, to choke out his breath.

Not only that, but he was getting less and less sleep. Every time he closed his eye sockets, broken images crossed his mind - they were almost memories, almost things Dream could actually recall, but there was always a sentence, or a face, or a scene that alluded him and made the almost memory as a whole drift away, too far to grasp. Sometimes it made him feel so hopeless - he knew those memories had to do with Cross, he knew, and he wanted nothing more than to remember them completely, to remember Cross, and yet he couldn't.

He hated it.

Dream let out a deep breath, sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooling at his hips. The room felt cold, and was far more cluttered than Dream would have liked: in his need to remember something he had torn through his poor room for pictures or journals or anything for more information - he had found a whole scrapbook of pictures which... well, honestly didn't do much, other than frustrate Dream more. The walls of the prince's room were a soft cream colour, the floor carpeted with an intricate design of gold flowers and old runes that had lost their meanings over the years. The large, overly soft bed was currently a mess of sheets, but stood pressed against the center of the west wall, a wooden night stand on the left side with a lamp and two books placed atop. To the right of the bed, on the same wall as the door, sat a large, old bookshelf - Dream hadn't even read half of the books, even though he had been meaning to at some point - with two cushioned arm chairs in front and a low table between them. Across from Dream's bed was his desk - which was cluttered just like the rest of his room - and his wardrobe. He had to make a mental note to clean it before father came in the morning. Or was it morning already? Hell if Dream knew.

His gold eye lights flickered to the corner of his room, next to the door. The shadows seemed darkest there, like the darkness was actually consuming the room, though Dream had sworn he'd seen a silhouette there a minute ago, out of the corner of his eye. A green silhouette.

It was late, he reasoned with himself, dragging his hand across his skull. It was late and he was tired and, above all, frustrated. His brain was trying to fit in pieces he could recognize in the changing shapes of the darkness, trying to find something familiar, stable.

Which is the only reason he thought he had seen Bethenny in that corner.

He had done everything he could to avoid that subject in recent months. Dream couldn't wrap his head around her death - god, he still couldn't admit to himself that she was really gone. Even thinking her name sent a bolt of pain to his soul, a deep, hollow sorrow. He berated himself for not spending more time with her - in recent years he knew they had become distant; Dream having found it unnecessary for him to have a nanny anymore, especially with talk of him being crowned in upcoming years. So he knew Bethenny spent more time with Nightmare. A part of the Prince wondered if his father was the one who made him not want to spend time with the woman - the bitter, angry side of him was more than willing to accept that as a fact.