#nightmares

Just a girl and her eyeless doll, Ember.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34584919

White Rabbit II: Feed Your Head - sousatayue - ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure [Archive of Our Own

Fic Summary: Giorno encounters a familiar Stand-wielding white rabbit after being sent home from school. Things are bad enough as it is, but tripping balls with a fever results in some very messed-up fever dreams…and it is unknown if he will survive long enough to get out.

gardenlovepoet:

Sometimes we would have a few nightmares so we would like something just to make us feel a little better

You will need: A purple or yellow piece of origami paper (or just square paper) , (you can have these other items but they arn’t required for the spell) lavender oil or peppermint oil , a yellow or purple candle . some incense

First begin by taking your paper and making a bird (it can be a dove or a crane or a heron or a humming bird its up to you) when your done hold your hands over the creation and say mentally or outloud:

“When i lay my head down to sleep may dreams of sweetness and kindness begin to come about may i be protected while i sleep and when i wake up with harm to none blessed be”

if you have any of those oils you can put it on there if you like

Feel free to alter this as much as you want have fun -garden

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging@ouatwinterwhump,@killian-whump,@sancocnutclub,@killianjonesownsmyheart1,@courtorderedcake,@facesiousbutton82<3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38HEREandHERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animationandart that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

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Note: I hope it doesn’t feel like I’m rushing these final updates, but I kind of am :D Now that the story is pretty much complete, I don’t need as much time between chapters. But the real reason is that I’m going on a band trip to Ireland on the 30th (!!!) and was hoping to finish posting before I leave. Both to avoid keeping you in suspense and so that Winter(/Spring/early Summer) Whump doesn’t become Midsummer Whump! XD 

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Present (Monday, continued)…

“Deeeeeep inna hundred acre wood…”

A little voice sang, high and sweet, while a tiny body wandered the periphery of the darkened cathedral, perfect miniature fingers trailing sanded oak walls, touching each crack where the boards were joined, sometimes slapping them with a giggle. Killian lay flat on his back, completely immobile, straining to protect his daughter. He needed to get her away from there somehow, before his Master noticed her, before she was caught up in its tortures, her body broken and cast aside like a rag doll.

His words came out silent. And she continued to sing.

“Donkey named Eeyore, little friend… Kanga, Roo, Curious George, tee-hee-hee…”

Killian could feel his heart pounding with the terror of Hope’s imminent discovery and violent death, all of his nightmare scenarios coming true before his eyes. Still, voice and movement remained out of reach. And the waves of pain accompanying the effort only convinced him of the reality of the situation. But then came another voice that did not belong in that sanctuary of horrors.

“Shhh, baby; Papa is trying to sleep, remember?”

Killian’s eyes snapped open and before anything had a chance to register–his surroundings, who was with him, even the throbbing pain in shoulder, chest, and hand–he was scrambling to push himself up to his elbows. Anguish tore through his upper body as he heard Hope squeal,

“Oh! Papa waked up!”

Killian fell back against the mattress, panting a grimace and still in the throes of dream disorientation. There was a commotion, Emma speaking quietly and urgently to someone else nearby, and then he felt her at his side, resting her hand on his upper arm.

“Shh, Killian, settle down. Lemme help you.”

The bed shifted suddenly beneath him, the quiet grumble of a motor sending vibrations through his chest and shoulder as the top half of the mattress slowly elevated. The movement made him dizzy, but his eyes were glued on the angelic face in the corner. She was in the arms of someone, being gazed upon by someone else, but it was like the radiance of her sharp outlines blasted away every other detail and left the rest of the scene in smeared, muted watercolor. Eerie prickles blanketed his face as jagged cracks begin to form in the crystalline layers of falsehood within his mind.

“Breathe, Killian,” pleaded a worried voice beside him. A chiming machine nearby seemed to second the request. But Killian wasn’t sure he even remembered how, until he suddenly realized he wanted nothing more than to greet the daughter the fates had restored to him. His chest expanded, filling him with life and light and longing.

“Hope,” he whispered, the name as much a plea to hold her close as it was an expression of unbridled joy and near-disbelief all rolled into one. The bed stopped moving, and though the change in position had intensified his pain, Killian did not comment; he was too caught up in the moment to pay it much heed. In fact, he even started reaching for the grinning toddler, until his blazing shoulder reminded him why that was a bad idea.

The two observers moved closer, and enough orientation had returned for him to identify them as David and Snow White, yet still, he only had eyes for Hope. Wearing a watery smile, Snow passed her granddaughter to Emma and then stepped back. Seeing the desperate look on her husband’s face, Emma gently spoke to their wriggly daughter.

“I think Papa wants a hug. Do you want to give him a hug?”

“I want a hug too, Mama.”

“Okay, just remember Papa’s owies, okay? You need to be very soft and still by him.”

Hope looked a little bit intimidated at first by her mother’s somber tone, but soon enough she was reaching both arms out toward Killian. After double-checking Killian’s expression for permission, which was unnecessary and they both knew it, Emma settled her carefully against his right side, between flank and forearm, where a toddler’s lack of caution might not result in serious harm. As Emma settled into a nearby chair, keeping a hand on her daughter just in case, Hope hunched over and laid her head on Killian’s chest. Maybe slightly closer to the sore shoulder than would have been comfortable in other circumstances, but the undeniable magic of the moment washed away such petty concerns.

Again rendered breathless, feeling as if he could stop time by remaining completely motionless, Killian’s surge of uncontainable joy triggered the response that had grown so automatic the past month, back when such feelings would lead to certain doom. The vision, and the mantra, both so at odds with what his senses were telling him was true but inescapable nonetheless. Desperate to override the mental reflex, Killian curled a trembling forearm around the tiny body, tentatively resting his splinted, bandaged hand on silken locks as he silently quarreled with his internal voice.

Hope was not kidnapped; she was here, snuggled against him, delicate fingers patting him in imitation of what she’d observed in adult hugs. Tangible, indisputable proof, tapping a sweet, sweet rhythm next to his vulnerable heart.

Nottortured.No. He could hear her even breaths, contented sighs with no trace of pain or fear. Nothing in her tiny wiggles suggested any distress, merely a toddler’s natural restlessness and the drive to remain always on the move.

Hope was alive. So very, very much alive. Not dead. Not dead. As Killian tried to clear blurred vision, he could hear muffled sniffling sounds echoing in every corner of the room, and he was pretty sure that they weren’t all coming from him. Not that it mattered. She was alive, she was safe,NOT DEAD, and his sore shoulder could not stop him from squeezing her tightly against his ribs, long enough that she grew bored and started to squirm. Bursting with energy, with life.

Emma carefully steered miniature knuckles away from the central line tunneled within Killian’s chest. Reluctant to release his hold on his precious child, Killian kept his arm around her lower back as she sat up. Her beaming face could have lit the entire world, and lingering shades of grisly thought fled before the onslaught. Even should he have wanted to do otherwise, for some unfathomable reason, Killian would have been helpless to resist: he grinned back, tears and all, as the ocean reflects the sun’s glory. Sobbing one last time, his expression wobbling only briefly in the direction of pain, he whispered,

“Thank you, love.”

Adorable concern darkened Hope’s features, and she glanced from her father’s face to her mother’s and back again.

“Papa is crying, Mama,” she said, and she touched a faded diamond printed on his gown. Barely able to form words herself, Emma managed,

“He missed you, baby.”

Hope turned unsure eyes on her father, who nodded in earnest agreement. That may have been one of the biggest understatements he’d ever heard, but it was no less true for it.

“Why?”

Emma rested one hand on Killian’s elbow and used the other to rub small circles on Hope’s upper back. “Because he loves you a lot.”

“Why?”

Before Emma could answer–or direct the conversation away from the endless spiral of repetitive questioning–Hope spotted a familiar item lying forgotten on the bedside table. “I want Oreo, Mama!”

She leaned forward, stretching her arms toward the stuffed animal, though she really had no chance of even coming close to retrieving it on her own.

“Please?” prompted Emma, and she waited for Hope to repeat the word before grabbing Eeyore from the table. And Killian was struck by the utter normalcy of the scenario he’d just witnessed. Hope was alive and Emma was still teaching her manners as if she would need them in the future, because she would need them in the future, because she had a future, because she was not dead. Tears filled his eyes yet again.

“Oreooooo!” sang Hope gleefully, oblivious. She’d been unable to pronounce the donkey’s name when first receiving him as a gift. Since then, she had learned the words to the song, sort of, and knew that ‘Eeyore’ referred to her favorite plush toy. But ‘Oreo’ he would forever remain.

“Do you want to show Papa your story?” asked Emma as Hope squeezed the donkey around his fluffy neck.

“Happy Bear!” she cried, nearly leaping to her feet in excitement and causing a definite jolt in Killian’s shoulder. Emma caught her arm and helped her to settle down.

“Okay, but you have to sit quietly, remember?”

David stepped closer and handed Emma a thin stack of papers sandwiched between two  pieces of decorated cardstock and tied at one end with colorful yarn. As Emma accepted the homemade storybook, Killian could just make out Belle’s fanciful script gracing the cover, which read, The Happy Bear.

Half in explanation, Emma asked,

“Auntie Belle helped you to make this, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” answered Hope, already entranced by her creation.

Careful not to rip the pages, Emma opened the cover and began to read.

“Once upon a time, there was a very happy bear.”

She held the book up so that both Killian and Hope could see the illustration on the facing page. The crayon sketch was hardly recognizable, least of all as a bear; it was a simple, somewhat circular shape with two eyes of unequal sizes and a wide smile stretching from the corner of one eye to the other. In that moment, Killian would have gladly classified it as the most beautiful art he’d ever seen.

“It’s lovely, darling,” said Killian in a gravelly voice, and Hope smiled and smiled.

Happy Bear went on to have several pages of disjointed adventures, appearing mostly the same on each one. When they came to the part where the wind blew all of the bear’s hair off, and a scribble at the edge of the page represented the wayward pelt, Killian startled himself with a genuine laugh, the first he had uttered in who-knew-how-many weeks. Emma had to stop and wipe away a tear from her cheek before turning to the next page.

It was a different type of paper, and Killian immediately recognized Emma’s handwriting taking the place of Belle’s.

“One day,” read Emma in a quavering voice, “a very naughty bear came and was mean to the Happy Bear and all of her friends.”

More circles filled the page, each wearing a frown, and it was difficult to tell which was the offending Naughty Bear. The next page had one giant, oblong shape towering over another half its size, and the smaller one wore a surprisingly recognizable expression of fear.

“Happy Bear’s papa came and told the Naughty Bear to go away.”

They had reached the final page. Emma’s voice was thick as she read,

“Happy Bear loved her papa very, very much.”

The giant circle was joined by a smaller one with the distinctive, wide smile representing the story’s protagonist. Even without appreciable arms, they were clearly locked in an embrace, celebrating the villain’s defeat. And Killian’s eyes were once again too flooded by tears to determine whether the back cover declaring The End contained an illustration.

Suddenly, what he had been through and accomplished had taken on just a bit more meaning. To think that his three-year-old, with the help of her mother, understood and appreciated the victory, could feel safe under his protection and might one day learn to follow his example was at once humbling and reassuring. Everything had been for her, whether he’d realized it or not. His Papa Bear’s instinct to defend his little one. And she was safe.

“Again, again!” begged Hope. Her excited squirming was causing Killian’s shoulder to throb, but he kept a tight hold on her anyway. The tormenting mental images could not compete with the truth on display, observable by all of his senses. And even the pain was preferable to what lay just beneath the surface of his consciousness.

Emma shut the homemade book, saying

“We can read it again the next time we visit, but right now Papa needs to rest.”

“No!” whined the toddler, but Emma was ready for this reaction. She got to her feet and, in an excited tone, said,

“We need to go meet Henry now, remember? Ice cream time?”

“H'ice cream!!“ Forgetting all about her Happy Bear story, Hope began bouncing in anticipation. Emma quickly lifted her up before she could do Killian any harm, in the same motion snatching up Eeyore, who was lying facedown on Killian’s abdomen. Whispers of panic flooded his mind at the sudden loss of proximity, and he gulped a breath that burned in his chest.

"Give Papa a nice goodnight kiss, okay?” Emma stooped to bring Hope within a cautious distance from Killian’s face. Restricted movement meant he could not reach up to caress her, but he savored the sloppy smooch she placed on his forehead.

“Ni-night, Papa.”

Killian could barely force sound through his throat, and the process was made that much harder by the fact that all he really wanted to do was ask her to stay.

“Good night, my happy bear,” he murmured, sure that the desperation in his smile would frighten or upset her. But she merely giggled, pleased by the nickname, and thrust Eeyore in his face so he could bestow a kiss on a fuzzy ear.

As Hope began to sing loudly about ice cream, Emma straightened, shifted her grasp on the three-year-old, and brushed a gentle hand along his face, promising,

“I’ll be back in maybe half an hour. 50 percent chance I’ll be painted with hot fudge, though.”

Killian nodded with a small wince. He was nowhere near ready for solid food yet; the longing he felt was for the company and, of course, the bliss of watching his little treasure enjoy herself with Henry and his family.

As Emma headed for the door, directing Hope to call out a “Bye-bye, Papa” as they went, David and Snow stepped forward to take her place. Tearing his eyes away from the retreating form of his daughter, Killian was, for the first time, forced into the realization that he had other visitors. That perhaps they had come to see him, not just to tag along with Emma and Hope. And he was suddenly struck with the reminder of what he had done to them both. All words of apology felt inadequate and stuck in his throat, and he was left helplessly staring, wondering if they would ever find it in their hearts to forgive.

Snow White was wearing a gentle, sad smile as she dug in a bag at her side.

“We should be going, too,” she told him. “But… we thought this might be helpful.”

She seemed a bit timid about the suggestion, as if it were in response to some information she was afraid he wouldn’t want her to know. From her bag, she produced a plain, brown frame and rotated it so he could see its contents: a color photocopy of the last page of Hope’s book, the Happy Bear embracing her papa, both of their smiles as wide as could be. In a blank corner, she had pasted a photograph portraying a real life hug between father and daughter, from before any of this had started.

“Emma mentioned that you were having some nightmares,” continued Snow in the same hesitant tone. “I thought, if it happens again, that you could look at this when you wake up and be reminded that she’s okay and that she’s thinking about you.”

She placed it on his bedside table, then adjusted everything so it was within effortless view, and he managed one strangled “thank you” before overpowering shame made him avert his eyes. The room’s outside window had the shades drawn, blocking out the daylight in the same way as the pall of trauma, physical and mental, fogged his thoughts and prevented optimism.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, a bit too loudly, trying to drown out the returning words and images worming their insidious pathways back into the spotlight. “For what we… whatI…”

His lungs seemed to be shrinking, a great weight pressing down in increments, and he shifted his bandaged, useless hand toward the line of sutures between his ribs, all to no avail. He could hear the desperate grief that had colored the words of both of these dear people beside him, saw himself driving the sword point into David’s flesh, remembered the lies and heartache, and then the torture and the helplessness as his control gradually waned. Hope dead, no hope, no hope…

“Killian. It’s okay,” David was saying, his good hand wrapped carefully around Killian’s twitching forearm. “Killian, look at us.”

He sought the framed drawing first. His link to the new reality, a mild balm for his soul, not yet corrupted by doubts. Snow White’s hand joined her husband’s, warm and soft upon his arm.

“We’re just glad you’re back,” she soothed. “It’s all over… and you’ve suffered enough.”

Happy Bear hugged Papa Bear. Hope hugged Killian. Snow’s words, forgiveness implied, blanketed his guilt-ridden heart. He could not understand.

Killian looked up, first at Snow, then at David. Both were watery-eyed but relaxed, wearing honest and compassionate expressions. He could read their sincerity, bewildering as it was. He had perpetuated the worst of all lies, and perhaps they would never trust his word in the same way again… but they were willing to move past it and bestow upon him a mercy he did not deserve. Even if he’d had the breath for thanks, Killian lacked the words.

David must have sensed how overwhelmed he was, for his eyes took on a twinkle of levity as he added,

“You’re even off the hook for this.” He carefully lifted his wrist a fraction to call attention to the sling he still wore, and Killian found himself raising an eyebrow in response, more in bemusement than anything else. David sighed, looking off into the distance as he feigned annoyance. “I sort of… owed you that one.”

Before Killian could protest–that wasn’treal,though, and anyway, ancient history had been the last thing on his mind when he’d been forced to stab  David–Snow White interjected,

“And actually, Killian… we wanted to thank you for what you did. You made the Realms safe again, for us, for Neal… I don’t think we can ever truly repay you for that.”

She bent and placed a soft kiss on his tousled hair, then stepped back to allow David access. He took an awkward look at his injured son-in-law, possibly trying to figure out a way to shake hands or pat him on the back without hurting him. Finally settling for a light squeeze of his mostly intact forearm, he smirked,

“Seconded. But I’m not kissing you.”

Killian came perilously close to laughing for the second time that day, and only stopped because of the threat of unbearable pain from the required muscles. He caught himself with a grimace; when he opened his eyes again, David was just hiding a wince of contrition.

“Get better soon.”

Finally finding his voice, Killian met each of their gazes in turn as he breathed,

“Thank you.”

A sudden, overpowering weariness washed over Killian as his visitors took their leave, and though he still feared what his dreams would bring, he was better equipped this time to meet twisted memory in battle. He had his family’s thanks and forgiveness, the promise of future encouragement, and most importantly, the lingering feeling of Hope’s touch, real and solid against the threat of ethereal phantoms. Perhaps it would be enough this time. 

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AN: Shout-out to my best friend’s little girl, who is a few years older now, but memories of visiting her at that age provided much of the inspiration for toddler Hope. The story book was based on one by baby Hookaroo, though, and I have to wonder if the poor hairless bear was an early stage of my metamorphosis into a whumper! XD

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging@ouatwinterwhump,@killian-whump,@sancocnutclub,@killianjonesownsmyheart1,@courtorderedcake,@facesiousbutton82<3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38HEREandHERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animationandart that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

________________________________________________________________

Present (Monday)…

“Wellthat doesn’t make any sense.”

Being startled by argumentative voices at his bedside was not the most pleasant way to wake up… but it was better than the nightmares.

“Regina, I’m telling you, that’s how Gold said to interpret it.” At least Emma was trying to keep her tone quiet. “The darker the colors, the stronger the shielding.”

“It started at the compound and spread to Storybrooke. How is it suddenly concentrated here?”

Killian slitted his eyes open, hoping to catch a glimpse of what it was they were bickering over. Emma sighed.

“How would I know? We all thought it would dissipate once the monster was dead, but if anything, it’s still getting stronger.”

Wearing her coldest scowl, Regina resumed studying the tablet device in her hands. Finally, she relented, somewhat bitterly if the drugs weren’t messing with Killian’s interpretation.

“Fine. We’ll pull people from the cleanup of the compound to take a look around the park. But this had better not be another waste of town resources.”

Emma did not flinch, at least not outwardly. But she did reach for the tablet, appearing confused. “Park? I thought it was strongest near City Hall.”

Impatiently, Regina tilted the screen in her direction. “That’s clearly the park, Sheriff Swan.”

Emma’s only response was a thoughtful, “Huh.”

Slamming the protective case closed, Regina noted Killian watching with tired eyes, but simply shot him an icy glare before turning and marching toward the door.

“I’ll call you,” she told Emma. And then she was gone.

Emma moved closer to Killian’s bedside.

“Sorry. I would have met her outside, but there’s a surgeon coming to take a look at your hand any minute.” She gently caressed his cheek. “Think you want them to knock you out for that?”

Grimacing, Killian shook his head once. The thought of more surgery was a lot to stomach just then–although the alternative was the possibility of permanent reduction in function, which was obviously worse–and he didn’t want to add post-anesthesia effects into the mix if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Besides, it couldn’t be much worse than the multiple daily nursing visits he’d been enduring, where they forced him through breathing exercises and coughing, leaving him nauseated with pain by the time they were finished.

“Shielding?” he croaked. His voice still sounded like the warm-up grunts of a wall-eyed seagull just before it let loose with a full-on cackle. Whether that was due to vocal strain or the breathing tube he’d had down his throat was not something he wanted to dwell on. At least the claustrophobic oxygen mask had been traded for the somewhat-less-annoying nasal prongs during the day, which helped the communication issue.

Emma fished an ice chip from the cup on the bedside table and popped it into his mouth. They never helped much but were better than nothing.

“Yeah. Whatever is preventing the use of magic,” Emma explained. “Rumplestiltskin helped figure out a way to show it on a map. We were hoping to pinpoint its source so we can shut it off.”

“Croc…?” he managed around the soothing ice shard. Emma made a face.

“When I went to go punch him in the… I mean, went to go get Hope, remember?”

Hope dead.

His eyes were open. All the details of the hospital room, his wife at his side, all plainly visible. Yet all he could see was the gruesome conjured figure of a corpse. A tiny, bloodied body. Meant as protection, intended to haunt him for only a fleeting, temporary span of time, yet necessary for so much longer and now much too close to the surface. Too detailed. Too real. Tainting all of his memories from before.

On instinct, Killian began to reach for his face, as if by digging his fingers into his eyes or even gouging them out could erase that image, but he was thwarted by tandem, grating pains in shoulder joint and daggered ribs. Momentarily overwhelmed, he squeezed his eyes shut, but that only served to bring the nightmare images back into full focus. Emma saw his torment and placed a gentle hand on his forearm.

“Killian?”

“I need… to see her…” he gritted out, one growling word at a time.

“I know you do,” soothed Emma. Hope kidnapped. “I just wasn’t sure about having her see you like this…” Hope tortured. “And I don’t think she’s allowed in here, anyway.” Hope dead.

Hope dead.

Hope DEAD.

Killian hiccuped a sob and again started to reach for his eyes, despite his damaged shoulder, despite the torn hand and shattered, spiked wrist. Hope dead. SCREAM FOR ME, TRIPOD. Dead… I REQUIRE YOUR SCREAMS.

Emma had a firm grip on both of Killian’s arms, but he was struggling to free himself, compelled to scrabble the graphic pictures from his mind, welcoming the pain as a desperate alternative to the voices persecuting him.

“Killian! Killian!” Emma was shouting. She probably only had trouble containing his flailing limbs due to not wanting to squeeze him too hard, but a part of him craved that. The machines monitoring his condition began chiming their various alarms as his vitals went haywire, responding to the struggle taking place.

“She’s fine, Killian; I swear to you! She got to spend a single exciting day with Belle and now is getting spoiled rotten by her grandparents. Look, I’ll show you, but you’ve gotta stop this! You’re hurting yourself!”

With difficulty, Killian reigned in the impulses driving the thrashing, pressing both arms hard into the mattress underneath him as his fisted hand pulsed with blazing fire. Shuddering, he panted through clenched teeth and tried to focus on his wife. Seeing him settling, Emma fumbled her phone from a pocket and trembled her way through the process of unlocking the screen and navigating to the photo gallery.

“Here, see?” She sounded frantic, her voice thin and high. “This was this morning, while you were down in Radiology.” She thrust the phone at him, too close to properly see even if her hands weren’t shaking and his eyes blurred with tears. Before Killian had time to try and focus on the image, Emma was swiping to the next picture.

There was a small form, dressed in familiar colors and radiating an apparent happiness as she was enfolded tightly in strong, masculine arms. The next blur was zoomed out to show a man’s face, a hand cradling soft curls against his chest. Killian blinked, tears running freely now, and caught a quick glimpse of an emotional David before the obscuring haze was back. Emma flipped through more images, sniffling as well at the memory of her parents’ reunion with Hope. Killian’s pulse and blood pressure had calmed slightly as his mind focused on the sight in front of him.

“They were happy to see her,” she said softly, then laughed once. “And Hope was totally oblivious to how much they had missed her. She would only tolerate so much cuddling before it was time to play.”

Killian’s tearful grimace was almost a smile, picturing the scene as Emma had described it. Little Hope was only ever snuggly when tired; at all other times it was go, go, go.

A stark contrast to the motionless corpse of his visions.

Hope kidnapped, Hope–

Killian scowled at the phone, trying to drive false images away with the truth. This morning, Emma had said. This morning, Hope had been swept up in her grandfather’s arms, had planted a sticky kiss on her grandmother’s cheek, had run off to play with uncle Neal, every moment captured in loving detail by her mother’s phone and laid out plain for him to see…

A single glint of red wormed its way among the blur. Perhaps a ribbon, perhaps a sports ball, a cardinal’s wing or even Swan’s leather jacket caught somehow in frame. Whatever the culprit, it was enough.

Crimson spread from that single point, blending with his tears to engulf happy, innocent pictures in vivid blood. Blood, on the grass, in the sky, blood on David’s hands and on Snow’s cheek, in Wilby’s fur. Blood. Hope was bathed in blood, drowning in it, tortured, cold and dead, her loved ones grieving and painted with her blood.

With a horrified cry, Killian grabbed at his face, and this time, Emma was too slow. Over-stretched tendons groaned within his shoulder, severed flesh inside his hand combusting along the way, but Killian ignored it all. The pointed end of the wrist ring left a shallow gouge beneath his eye, even through the layers of gauze surrounding it, and as Emma dropped her phone, Killian moaned,

“It’s not enough. Not…” A sob caught in his throat. He heard Emma pleading with him, felt her hands on his wrists, but all he could see was the blood. “Swan… please…!”

“You’ll see her!” Emma cried, near hysteria. “I’ll bring her, sneak her past the nurses and Whale; to hell with their rules! But I need you to calm down!”

Whimpering, Killian continued digging both wrists into his eye sockets, shaking with horror and anguish. Emma managed to yank his now-bleeding hand away, but it took both of her own to do it. Practically kneeling on the pinioned arm, she cursed and hit the nurse call button.

NO HOPE, TRIPOD.

Maybe his Master was right, thought Killian as twisting, cramping pain invaded his fragile lung. Maybe he would never be free of the horrific images. Maybe all hope really was lost.

Perhaps he should have never stopped praying for death to claim him.

________________________________________________________________

sleep is overrated anyways, fuck life and it’s bullshit at this point

yeaaaaaaah, s’time for nap

I assumed I couldn’t sleep because the strain of medical marijuana I use wasn’t effective for me (it wasn’t) but I got a new strain and I’m tired. I feel tired but I can’t get myself to sleep. It’s like my mind is buzzing to keep away those nasty flashbacks.. as soon as it quiets down I see him… I feel him. I just want to sleep.

03.10.21

Each day, I face pure torture. 

Lego on my bedroom floor, crayons on my bed, glitter on my stuff, and worse, CHEETOS on my laptop. Orange, STICKY, no-I-won’t-go-away-with-just-tissue Cheetos. 

I begin to think that kids don’t actually come from heaven. They’re little spawns of evil sent to torture adults until new recruits are sent and they are the ones tortured (finally). 

 And then night comes and I hear their little voices, asking me, “Can you go with me downstairs? It’s dark.” 

It dawned on me that they’re still kids. 

Little humans with legit fears. 

They use teddy bears to help make them sleep better at night. 

They get scared of the dark and whatever they imagine is beyond it. 

They’re vulnerable. 

…and I can still tell them stories that will give them nightmares.  

…I’m kidding. Sort of.

Just waiting for my demons to quiet down.