#ptsd;

This was initiation. He had never been more scared in his life, having been forcefully grabbed from his bed and wrapped in his bedsheets, unable to know where he was going. The next sensation he felt was the cold seeping through his bed sheet as he was dropped rather painfully on the floor. Candles everywhere, paddles, knives.. 

The next thing was pain. He saw the blood dripping from his hands, the way he felt so exposed and they all silently sat there, judging him for each and every imperfection that he had. He wasn’t perfect enough for them, but he wanted to be in so badly, wanted brothers. 

Craig was thrashing about, trying to get out of the room. He couldn’t handle the burn of wax on his back, the cuts at each and every imperfect thing. And then he heard a voice. A voice that wasn’t like the ones around him. He could see the knife coming down and his eyes squeezed shut, ready for the pain, and then they were open, seeing Dresdaen, screaming at him. It took a moment, Craig staring at the other with wide eyes. Where was he?

He looked around, panicking as he tried to reorientate himself into this reality. 

This isn’t that. This is the only dream you have when you’re worried. This is you, clutching a weapon, running through a field strewn with bodies, chasing the back of Cherin, following your partner, to the ends of this planet as well as the others. You feel alive.

She falls, first to her knees, then fully to the ground. You scream, sprint over, but something, a rock? something, hits you, square in the center of your forehead. Blood-thinned paint drips down your face as you struggle towards her, whichever of her is the real one, the one you can feel, the one with eyes as indigo as yours and sharp, small horns pointing out at the sides, the one you kissed once before landing.

Someone grabs you, ignoring your protests, and drags you into a ditch. You can’t focus, can’t look up. You feel sick. Cherin’s dead, they say. You didn’t see it for yourself. She can’t be.

The hospital is next. Your body is hot, wracked with fever, and they’d shoved a puck between your teeth to keep you from biting. Your wound is infected. These medicullers are both jadebloods, their eyes are cold, they look at you and frown. They say you’d die if you stayed with the Church. They say your face was going to kill you.

At least, this time, you wake up before they treat you, you sit straight up shaking and sweating, clutching at the sheets, pillows, anything solid. You feel like you’re going to puke, everything is too bright and the lights are all off and you need something, Sunzuu, water, anything. Anything that isn’t in the past and doesn’t make you think of her and doesn’t make the scar under your paint itch.