your dreams are all of war

“Oh,” Blake says, and looks down at the mattress. His fingers pull a feather out of his down blanket; he never liked down blankets when he was healthy. He felt like duvets were unnecessarily cruel to animals. Why did birds have to suffer just so he could get a good night’s sleep? But now, it’s hard for him to fall asleep without the weight of a thick blanket dragging him down to meet Morpheus and Hypnos. He tosses the feather off the side of his bed, and it twirls down slowly to land right in the middle of Ezra’s back. Ezra doesn’t stir, sleeping peacefully. That confirms what Blake hadn’t wanted to believe; that the hallucination in front of him is nothing more than that.

He remembers his psychologist’s advice when it comes to hallucinations. There’s even a fun rhyme: go along with what they say up until they go away. Unless it doesn’t make sense, of course; but this makes perfect sense to him. He wants to cry, and scream, and shove this false fantasy away from him, but it makes sense. He’s just had one of the worst nights since Jupiter’s death; it makes sense that she would appear now.

Up until now he’s only seen her in flashes, in echoes. Sometimes he’ll catch a whiff of her shampoo on the wind, and he’ll close his eyes and let that emotion smother him. This Jupiter looks unfathomably real, and whole; her hair is braided back and she’s wearing a simple dress. Maybe that’s what she would have worn tonight, if she’d gotten the chance to go.

Why are you here, he wants to demand. Leave me alone. You’re dead.

What he does instead is reach out a hand, wiggling his fingers like a child. “Can I touch you?” he asks, helpless to restrain himself. He needs warmth; he needs some assurance that this hallucination isn’t going to try and kill him like some of the others do. “I mean, are you– c-can I– can I feel you?” He desperately wishes he’d never been diagnosed with schizophrenia, so that he could just live in this moment as someone who believes Jupiter has come back to life just to visit him.

“I had a really bad night,” he tells her quietly. Instantly, tears start to well up in his eyes; he’s not proud of it, but it’s nothing he can hide from his own psyche anyway.

Jupiter was never good at affection. It always seemed difficult and tense and unfathomably uncertain, but there were times in her life when she knew what to do. Blame it on nature versus nurture or maybe accuse what little affection she had ended up receiving when she was still in the cult, but part of her knew how to love in ways her mind didn’t want to allow. With her children, with Zach, with the few people in her brief life that had gotten past her barriers and found the girl behind the violence.

Whether it’s a result of being nothing more real than a dream or if it’s truly what Jupiter would have done if she was faced with the broken and desperate boy in front of her, she opens up her arms to him. It’s not a hug, not with her bridging the distance between them, but its an invitation. If he wants to be beside her, next to her or in her arms, he can be. His choice, his option to take her unreal comfort. 

“ I’m here.” It’s a reassurance this time as much as an answer and her lips curl up into a brief smile again. “ I know you did. She broke your heart.” Blunt and honest with information only a ghost could have. “ But it wasn’t like me. I didn’t do it on purpose. She hurt you and it wasn’t a side effect of something else.”

[ + @jupiterhudson​ ]

He’s had dreams about her before, but nothing so real. So corporeal, so tangible, so present. When Blake wakes up from a fitful rest (he had another nightmare about Gabriel), she’s sitting at the end of his bed. And for a blissful moment, he forgets. He forgets about Lydia, and he forgets about Gabriel, and he forgets about Gabriel, and he forgets about the Creeper. He forgets about Jupiter’s death. The only people in the world are him, eyes bleary from sleep and pillow wet from tears, and her, in all her glory. Living. Breathing. Smiling.

“Jupiter,” Blake whispers, like a prayer to a planet far away. And the second he speaks, reality sets in; Blake remembers.

He remembers the solid metal rod that Jupiter Hudson had been pushed back onto, working its way into her chest like a javelin. He remembers her funeral service, touching in its depth but too ephemeral to provide closure. He remembers that he hadn’t known her, not really; he knew what other people told him about her. He remembers that he has schizophrenia, and that he suffers from severe hallucinations and his reality is often distorted.

But then Jupiter’s smile sinks a little in the corners, and Blake sits up straight, head swimming in confusion. He starts to question his illness, and his sight.

“Jupiter, I don’t… are you real? Are you here?”

Hallucinations aren’t real. They’re figments of the imagination or, more typically, the creations of a mind that’s been pushed to the breaking point. If they’re people, they’re not the real person, not a ghost or a memory or the evidence of anything more than thoughts. And so the Jupiter Hudson that sits at the end of Blake Palmer’s bed isn’t real, not in any true sense of the word. She’s just the version of the girl that he holds in his head.

But she’s there when he needs her, or perhaps when he doesn’t. Either way, he’s looking for a solution, for comfort, for the girl he thinks that maybe he could have adored if he’d known her for longer before her death. She smiles at him, chest rising and falling like she’s breathing and the edge of the bed weighted down like she’s actually sitting there.

“ Of course not.”

Even as a hallucination, she’s still her and that means tactless and blunt, even if she never means to hurt people with her words. It’s just the way that she was raised and the way she learned how to be; hurt is something that can be avoided with thick skin and a deep enough belief in one’s own strength. But she knows that isn’t true. She was strong and she still died.

“ I’m here. Not real. There’s a difference. If I was real, I’d be petting Ezra. I like him. He’s gotten bigger since I met him.”

NAME: Jupiter Hudson AGE: 18 years SEX: Female RACE: Caucasian  HOME ADDRESS: N/A OCCUPATION: High School Student NEXT OF KIN: Sterling Hart (son), Godfrey Radcliffe (father, estranged) TYPE OF DEATH: Violent, Found Dead

DESCRIPTION OF BODY: Clothed EYE: Brown // HAIR: Brown // WEIGHT: 116 lbs // HEIGHT: 5′ 5″

MARKS AND WOUNDS: Several wounds to the arms and hands, most likely defensive. Right arm broken, also likely due to defense against a much larger attacker. Broken jaw implies attacker likely surprised the victim, either taking advantage of the darkness or due to the fact that the victim knew and/or trusted the attacker. Impalement wound through the center of chest, suspected to be due to being pushed back onto a large metal rod. Extent of injury suggests that death wasn’t immediate and victim instead struggled to free herself for some time.

“I don’t know about that.” He mumbled thinking about how he had kept secrets for decades out of stubbornness. “I guess… learning to fight better might not be so bad.” Andi wasn’t as pathetic as most people would think. He had gone out of his way to learn a good amount of self-defense. He was very in tune wit his body and was quick, athletic and remarkably strong. He just didn’t always like to show it. “Okay… let’s go to the gym.”

“You don’t have to know. I do.” She was raised to be stubborn, raised to only ever listen to a select few people, and although she had softened slightly since coming to Plath, she was still harder and more intense than most. “Good choice. I really didn’t want the detention that would come from you being an ass,” she said bluntly, turning on her heel and beginning to walk. “Do you work out often?”

“It is a good enough reason for me.” He crossed his arms, trying to stand his ground. “I am not going to go fight you, if that was your idea.”

“Well, it’s not good enough for me and I can promise you that I’m more stubborn than you,” she insisted, not intimidated in the slightest. “Of course not. I’d destroy you if we did and that wouldn’t do any good. But exercise is good. They have punching bags in the gym building. I can teach you how to fight better and you can punch the shit out of an inanimate object instead of bitching at me.”

“Oh…” So this girl wasn’t being an asshole; she genuinely didn’t know what a service dog was. Blake swallowed, and then blurted out, “That’s really sad!” He shifted between his feet, and then said, “Here, uh. You can pet him. He’s just a puppy, he’s really friendly. I don’t think Ez would be cut out for a hunting lifestyle.”

Her brows furrowed for a moment at his sudden statement, surprised at the fact that he found it sad -- and that he was willing to state it so blatantly. “I don’t think it was sad. It was just practical,” she explained before her attention was brought back to the puppy. There was a long moment of hesitation before she knelt down, holding out a hand to Ezra and waiting for the pup’s approval before gently running her hand through his fur. “Thank you. I think he would be a very good hunter, if he wanted to be.”

“It’s like speaking another language,” he agreed, resting his cheek against his palm. “Why would he do that? That’s horrible. Was he trying to hide something?” He shook his head. “I have to admit, I wasn’t home when my community was raided. I wish I had been—I don’t know much about what happened that day–though part of me is glad I didn’t have to witness it. It must have been terrifying for you.”

Jupiter shrugged before giving a small nod. “Some things that occurred didn’t agree with the law that the rest of the world had. He believed we would all be prosecuted and it would be easier for us to die instead. At least, that’s what one of the survivors told me. I was out hunting at the time with my son,” she explained. “It’s not a pleasant experience watching everything you’ve ever known get torn out from underneath you.”

“Oh my goodness, I adore them. It’s as if an english bulldog and pit bull mixed. They’re basically the Rock Johnson of dogs.” she responded, attempting to describe the buff-pups to the bright eyed brunette. Despite never owning a dog she was a huge fan of them. Sadie was the type of person who’d stop someone walking their dog down the sidewalk and spend ten minutes playing with it before the owner got aggravated. 

“I’ve seen a pit bull, but I don’t know what an english bulldog or Rock Johnson are,” Jupiter admitted, giving a small shrug of her shoulders. Given the way she was raised, it wasn’t unusual to find herself unaware of things that other people talked about. She’d long since made peace with her ignorance -- they were just as clueless about her life as she was of their’s.

“You’re making me choose one favorite? Pure evil.” Sadie giggled as she contemplated the question. Picking a favorite breed of dog was like picking which finger she’d be happiest loosing- near to impossible. Yet after what felt like an eternity she finally came to a decision. “Honestly, I’m going to have to go with American Bulldogs. When they’re puppies they’re basically wrinkly, little lumps of perfectness.”

In a far better mood than usual, Jupiter couldn’t help but smile along with the blonde girl, waiting patiently for her to make a decision about dogs. Her own preferences didn’t much exist, given her penchant for practicality, but she was fond of Corgis given her recent discovery of them. “I’ve never seen one of those before. What are they like, besides wrinkly?”

“If you feel that way about how the system I cannot change your mind, but that is not how it works. We aren’t here to trap you.”

“I am here because my family is dead and police said that I needed to be rehabilitated. I cannot leave. I am trapped.”

“Pretty sure it’s a bit more than just getting wet, it seems like we may be trapped for a few days.”

“That’s nothing new, students are trapped here all the time.”

Every day that he skipped going to Aqua he got more and more filled with anxiety, discomfort and at this point anger. “Because I said no!” He said, clearly upset with the person speaking to him. 

Jupiter frowned, staring up at the teacher with her brows furrowed. “First of all, that’s not a real reason. Second of all, you’re pissed and it’s obviously not my fault, so either calm down or I can find a way for you to release some tension.”

“The weather forecast for this upcoming week looks absolutely terrifying.”

“It’s just a little rain and snow. Are you scared to get wet?”

“Don’t Google him. You’ll regret it, your eyes will regret it, your dreams…” Landon paused for dramatic effect, “..will regret it. His mustache will haunt you.” 

“I have no idea what Googleing someone means, but I’m pretty sure you’re exaggerated,” she said, shaking her head as she gave a small smile.

“No, but I made him question his entire existence, and why he’s such an ass.”

“That’s almost as good, though I think punching him would have been very satisfying.”

It was easier for Blake to feel less offended after this girl had straight-up asked what a service dog was, not why he needed one or anything like that. His guard was still up as he shrugged with one shoulder, and explained, “I mean, I’m not blind or anything. I have really bad hallucinations, and sometimes I can’t tell what’s real. So Ezra helps with that. He’s a comfort animal too, although that part is just a bonus perk.” 

Blake hammered out his explanation as fast as he could, reciting it nearly from memory at this point.

Jupiter wasn’t used to some of the coping mechanisms that people in the real world used, but they fascinated her. All dogs that she’d ever owned had been meant for fighting, defense or for hunting. Sure, she adored them, but they weren’t meant for comfort -- like everything else in her life, they were practical. “That seems nice. I had a dog back home, but he was just a hunting dog. I think he might have tried to bite me if I ever tried to cuddle him.”