Don't Give Up On Me - Dreamnotfound

18

DREAM'S POV

When Dream woke up again, it took him a few moments to realize that he was lying in bed, next to George. He turned his head to the side, barely making out the dark haired boy's outline in the dark. A scattered beam of moonlight fell through the window, barely illuminating George's features.

Dream studied him, carefully, quietly. George's eyes were shut, his chest rising and falling peacefully. His expression was happy, glowing even in his sleep.

A pang went through Dream's heart, but he shook his head, determined not to think about that right now.

Dream stirred slightly, shifting his position so he was staring back up at the ceiling. He had no idea what time it was, but he had no incentive to find out.

Fine to let time pass by.

He took a deep breath, and coughed slightly as the air he sucked in scratched against his dry throat. He instinctively tried to sit up, but when his body refused to cooperate, he remembered —

Right, I'm fucking paralyzed from the waist down.

Dream stopped his movements, not wanting to disturb the boy sleeping quietly next to him.

Wouldn't be the first time I've ruined his life.

Dream chuckled dryly, quietly, breaking the silence in the room. He squeezed his eyes closed again, listening to the dead silence in the room. But again, the dreaded, painful thoughts came to his mind, invading the momentary peace that was brought by the boy laying next to him. He instinctively reached out for George's hand, but stopped himself, curling his hand into a fist to contain the pain that surged up and around his heart.

Because no matter how hard he tried, the monsters, the demons he always ran from, would catch up to him. No, it wasn't physical pain, per se. It was more of an imagined pain; but don't get me wrong, it still hurt.

Against his very own will, Dream began thinking about that night. The night when he stepped into that car, heading to his very own demise. Perhaps demise wasn't the correct word; he was still alive, after all. But on the other hand, it felt as though something within Dream had died that night.

But George seemed to bring it out again, bring it back again. Made him feel alive. It was almost enough to stop his plans. But not quite.

When he woke up from that cloud of darkness, receiving the news that his body from the waist down was paralyzed, Dream felt... dead, in a way. He felt like a deadweight, quite literally, sometimes. And he hated it. He hated being such a burden, such an annoying problem that had been dumped onto George's shoulders. He hated himself for it.

He hated the tears that pricked in the corner of his eyes. He hated that he was so weak, so weak, that he couldn't solve his own problems, he couldn't be happy for George.

But then again, his plans would solve his own problems.

He hated that he still pitied himself, still cried at night because of that dumb mistake he made. He shouldn't pity himself, Dream always told himself. The one that should be pitied was George, who had to go to such lengths to care for him. Not him, the deadweight that had to be dragged around and fed like a newborn baby.

But then again, what better was he, what better was he than a newborn baby?

Good only for smiling and laughing at, and quick to disappoint. Even worse than a newborn baby, Dream thought.

The tears started flowing freely, and Dream only hated himself even more for it. How weak was he, how weak and pitiable was he that he would cry. Plenty of people, without homes, without friends, without food or water, still working tirelessly to care for themselves.