And we laugh like soft, mad children - Rapt

[rapt]

there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail ------ the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever He has never stopped dreaming of the monster. And sometimes that’s all it feels like – like a dream, something soft and indistinct, an unreality to the way fear curled tight fingers in his ribs and the monster breathed things while Rapt promised to be good, so good. He wonders what was real and what was augmented in his feeble mind. He finds others, but finds no one. No one like the monster, they are plain and boring, the conversations idling like stalled cars. He hears a bellow in the beating heart of the forest and for a moment his breath ceases - he, for just a moment, before a brilliant, wild hope takes over. He cries out, as if in return, though his cry is less fearsome and more one of surprise, of relief. It’s real, it’s real. He moves to the sound, follows it like a string, then: him. The monster. His heart is pounding like fists on his breastbone but he doesn’t care, he runs, a wild and desperate thing. He wants something indefinable: wants this. Whatever this is. He halts before him, drops to his knees. Always such a good boy. “You,” he breathes. A rock digs into one bent knee, but he ignores it. His eyes are on the monster, on the curved horns and blazing eyes. “You came back.” rapt caius x else