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Crane can't wake up.
Those are the worst ones. He's fully aware that this is a dream because great grandmothers don't resurface from where you've killed them, buried their bodies. No. Dead people don't walk the earth, they don't point with skeleton fingers and they don't use that voice.
They don't tell him he's a disappointment and they don't tell him he's going to burn in hell and they don't chase him down the hallways of Crane manor. They don't.
They don't but she's doing it, now. Screaming at him. 'Worthless,' and 'bastard child' and 'waste.' The words are spinning in Crane's head as he hurriedly goes to his room and locks the door and puts an old dresser in front of it so she can't get in.
Something spills out.
Crane looks over and he's horrified--it's a magazine, an innocent magazine, one with a smiling man on the front, a smiling shirtless man with promises of more nude males under the cover and it's right next to a Slayers official magazine with Kable on the front with a gun.
--And he can hear her now, except it's not 'worthless' and 'bastard child' and 'waste,' it's 'unholy boy,' and 'faggot,' and 'freak of a son,' and he slides down the wall, sobbing as his dead grandmother claws her way into the room.
'It's your turn, Jonathan,' and there's a flock of crows and they're pecking him, eating his liver, eating his eyes and he's falling and falling and falling and lands on the hard, cold floor of his highschool's bathroom, where his head is underfoot of one Billy Squires.
"If it ain't the Scarecrow," And Billy's accent is far more Georgian--something Crane trained himself out of--and he squeezes his eyes shut.
"No, please, don't--"
"Shuddup, Scarecrow! With that figure, you can't even fight back!"
He can hear the unzipping of Billy's pants and knows what's going to come next, the trickle of liquid that makes his cheeks burn in humiliation and suddenly from the tile floor a skeletal hand bursts out--
--his great grandmother grabs a hold of his ankle--
--crows burst in from the bathroom windows--
--and all he can hear is 'maybe he wouldn't piss on ya if ya were worth something'--
and all Crane can do is scream.
Those are the worst ones. He's fully aware that this is a dream because great grandmothers don't resurface from where you've killed them, buried their bodies. No. Dead people don't walk the earth, they don't point with skeleton fingers and they don't use that voice.
They don't tell him he's a disappointment and they don't tell him he's going to burn in hell and they don't chase him down the hallways of Crane manor. They don't.
They don't but she's doing it, now. Screaming at him. 'Worthless,' and 'bastard child' and 'waste.' The words are spinning in Crane's head as he hurriedly goes to his room and locks the door and puts an old dresser in front of it so she can't get in.
Something spills out.
Crane looks over and he's horrified--it's a magazine, an innocent magazine, one with a smiling man on the front, a smiling shirtless man with promises of more nude males under the cover and it's right next to a Slayers official magazine with Kable on the front with a gun.
--And he can hear her now, except it's not 'worthless' and 'bastard child' and 'waste,' it's 'unholy boy,' and 'faggot,' and 'freak of a son,' and he slides down the wall, sobbing as his dead grandmother claws her way into the room.
'It's your turn, Jonathan,' and there's a flock of crows and they're pecking him, eating his liver, eating his eyes and he's falling and falling and falling and lands on the hard, cold floor of his highschool's bathroom, where his head is underfoot of one Billy Squires.
"If it ain't the Scarecrow," And Billy's accent is far more Georgian--something Crane trained himself out of--and he squeezes his eyes shut.
"No, please, don't--"
"Shuddup, Scarecrow! With that figure, you can't even fight back!"
He can hear the unzipping of Billy's pants and knows what's going to come next, the trickle of liquid that makes his cheeks burn in humiliation and suddenly from the tile floor a skeletal hand bursts out--
--his great grandmother grabs a hold of his ankle--
--crows burst in from the bathroom windows--
--and all he can hear is 'maybe he wouldn't piss on ya if ya were worth something'--
and all Crane can do is scream.
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He was awake now. Awake but no less sane, hair disheveled, tear strains on his cheeks. He's looking at Tillman but not quite there, mind still far away until he's finally trying to calm himself down. Muttering a list of phobias. Trying to breathe. Trying to stop shaking.
"A dream," he said simply. "Just... Just a dream..."
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Tillman's grip softened and shifted up to Crane's shoulders. He gave a reassuring squeeze with both hands. "Perimeter secure. Everything is okay," he informed Crane quietly.
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He's shaking, and still not quite aware of that's happening.
"H-hydrophobia, fear of water... It's just--just a dream..."
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Glaring hard at the wall, he rested a hand between Crane's shoulder blades and began to rub slow, reassuring circles. "Just a dream," he agreed in a low voice that rumbled through his chest.