This time, just as his eyes are about to be scooped from their sockets by a familiar, terrible figure, just before he's forced to watch Newcastle all over again, the mirror cracks: the dreamscape shatters. A breath of swirling sand and a dark mist enveloping him--
WAKE UP, JOHN CONSTANTINE.
And the nightmare is over.
Standing at the foot of the bed is a familiar, dark figure, whose eyes burn like stars in the pitch black.
"You must think I have not kept my end of our bargain," says Morpheus, sounding... disappointed. "I was not aware that another nightmare had decided to prey upon your memories, too. It will not happen again. He will be dealt with."
it's never been like this before. he's never been catapulted away from the fingers that seem to dig into him forever and the teeth that rend like love, sent spinning weightless, meaningless, senseless into the fathomless ( endless ) dark. sinking in an iced-over sea, whispers of fucking eye-eater shimmering, fading into the seamless black glass surface. somehow the absence is so much worse; panic slams his ribcage, the echo of his fists beating against the ice. he has to get OUT before it comes back, out of this fucking nothing tomb, he has to . . . he has to —
he jackknifes to his senses with a shout, and when the fog of sweat-drenched horror fades, he sees . . . well, stars. literally. saved by the bell, and eyeballs intact. never thought he'd be happy to see the creepy fucker looming over his bed. that's morpheus for you, con job, says his stress-fried brain with a smirk: always seems to catch you mid-plummet.
' jesus. ' spit crackles in the back of his dry throat, like he's been dreaming so long that he's mummified inside: a desiccated thing to be uncovered in a dusty corner. like rachel. he pinches the bridge of his nose, splays fingers out across his eyelids — still there, thank christ. this time. ' it's real. jesus. '
his hands are shaking. he almost bites off the end of his silk cut getting it in his mouth; no luckier with the lighter. ' so that's one of yours, then, is it? not to tell you how to do your JOB, mate, but making things with fuckin' teeth for eyes is bound to cause problems down the line. ' it'd sound funnier if he wasn't numb and nauseous, crawling to the core. he's never woken up before it ate the eyes; it almost doesn't feel real anymore, having them. ( something skittering across the shard in his mind saying to do it himself. )
' how exactly do you deal with it, eh? pop it back in the workshop for a spell, make it a more palatable little nightmare? VERY bloody generous. ' he ought to mind the gift horse, but he can't be arsed when he's still shivering in his sheets and the fucking lighter won't spark. he gives up with a snarl, flicking the unspent cigarette at dream's feet. fancies he can still hear the nightmare chewing, chewing, chewing. christ, he just wants to sleep. ' what the sodding hell does it WANT with me? '