Beauty In Death [DreamNotFound]

chapter four

Sometimes when George has a dream he knows there is a specific place he needs to get to, just over the hill, or just round the corner. Sometimes he needs to get to this place because there is someone chasing him from behind, someone he must escape no matter what. These dreams are simply just dreams until they become a night mare.

George's legs run underneath him as fast as he can possibly go, to get to this distant destination, he knows time is short, and that makes it worse. Time is so short that if he doesn't cover more ground more quickly he knows he is going to run out, but his pace cannot increase. He is forever stuck in an agonisingly slow speed and no matter how hard he tries to increase it, his limbs just do not cooperate. They helplessly pound against the ground, their balance wobbly and clumsy, as if his body has a mind of it's own.

Or maybe it isn't his speed that is the problem. Sometimes George knows he is going as quickly as physically possible but still doesn't get anywhere. His lower body scrapes it's heals against the pavement, propelling him forward but the ground slips underneath him like a conveyer belt, as if he is running on a treadmill with no destination in front of him. He can see where he is headed, just beyond the reach of his clammy fingertips is the sanctuary he has been searching for but no matter how long he works and needs at the ground, he is stuck in a constant time loop of pain and anguish, gaining no ground and no speed and no hope. Because no matter how hard he tries, he just doesn't have the capabilities of winning, of beating this idiotic loop of a game and breaking through the hands of the dream that scrape and scratch at his sides, tying him down and prohibiting him from all his possibilities.

Sometimes no matter how hard you fight, no matter how much motivation you have, you just can't do it.

If there was one way to describe the frustration George felt right now, it would be that of the dream. His legs were a grey blur underneath him as he parted through the river of trees, running at speeds he's never ran before, back through the terrain and towards the ear-splitting screech that had ripped through his ears and pounded the beat that now serenaded from his drums.

No matter how fast he was running he felt like his destination was still the same distance away, his body trying to heave it's way through quick sand, his limbs feeling like weights attached to his frame, an anchor planted in the sea holding him in place, restricting him from moving.

But he was moving. Just not fast enough.

Shades of green faded into shades of brown, a water colour painting dripping its colour into the facade of smudged lines his scenery now painted, as George raced past turrets of leaves in a hurry. The salty residue of the air whipped around him incinerating his face with faint carmine lines that danced and tickled under the surface of his creamy skin. The air tasted like a pavement just after the rains dried and you look around expecting to see a stain but instead are left with no sign that the rain was ever there in the first place besides the lingering, gravel like taste on your tounge.

As George ran through the forest of green, his feet thuded across the soft ground, squishing twigs and innocent insects in its wake as he charged across the terrain, fingers wrapped round the handel of his dagger. He was getting closer now as the sound of voices seeped into his conscious, and he was now painfully aware of what a stupid mistake this was, with no proper one to one combat skills nor the courage to take another life, George realised he didn't have an plan of attack, yet this didn't slow down the speed of his feet.

Hurriedly searching above his head, he looked for Dream in the trees but came back empty handed as the fair head was no where to be seen. His feet came to a halt in front of the cave where he had been accommodated to the night before, his hands subconsciously going to his knees as he bent over in an attempt to suck the air back into lungs. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his skin pulling at the sticky fabric that stretched across his pectorals that were now wet with sweat. His ears tuned into his surroundings and he heard the distant voices again, causing him to whip his head round in surprise. His coffee irises darted across the trees searching for any movement besides the odd rustling of the leaves as a bird left them or a small invertebrate crawled across them.