Where Boys Fear to Tread
In the Arms of Sleep.
A scream cut through the frigid night air. Terror. Pure Terror. In a darkened bedroom a boy sat up, eyes wide and searching, frantic against pressing black. Across the room the scream continued. Sweat covered chest arced away from the bed, arms and legs thrashing against the sheets, face contorted by that scream. A scream loud enough to wake the dead, but somehow not enough to wake the writhing boy.
'Jasper' the words of the first boy snaked across the room, heard by none other than himself. The screaming boy still screamed.
The wakened boy swung his legs to the floor, toes curling as they hit the cold floorboards. He bit his lip against the urge to say his brothers name again. His voice would go unheard, the words would be wasted.
The darkness seemed to try to hold him back, but when he reached out his fingertips brushed against damp, clamy skin. The pressure of his palms forced Jaspers chest down, out of that strange arc. Then those hands moved to cup the screaming boys' cheek, brush over his hair. Cull the scream.
Hazel eyes flickered open.
'Conor?' his voice was rough, broken from the scream.
The first boy didn't reply, his hands still moving over Jasper's hair. Knowing how to calm him. Knowing how to ease his shuddering, quickened breaths.
When Jasper was still for all but his glowing eyes Conor took his hands away.
Took a step backwards.
'Please stay?' Jasper's voice was much more tentative than his scream. He never made statements, only questions that were in constant need of reassurance and answer.
Conor reclaimed that step, looking with wide eyes that mirrored his brothers. Everything was a mirror between the two. They were the same image, copied, duplicated, repeated. Each the perfect replica of the other.
There was silence between the twins as they peered at each other, silence that had tangible substance in the thick darkness.
This itself was ritualistic. Each action was familiar, each word had been spoken before. They reenacted it like a play, following the stage directions perfectly, delivering each line how it was meant to be.
How many nights had Conor woken to Jaspers screams? How many times had he comforted his brother after the nightmare?
And yet they played it out the same every time.
Jasper broke their eye contact, wrigling his way to the far side of the bed, creating a space for Conor to fill.
His body trembled as his arms encircled his brothers chest. His entire being was consumed by the wracking shivers, shivers that faded slowly in the wake of the nightmare, in the presence of the only one who could wake him when his screams tore open the night.
Sleep was possesive, and so often heavy eyelids obeyed its beckoning and allowed the night to claim its victims. When daylight woke it would find the brothers locked and still in that comforting embrace, the glittering eyes of the screaming boy vigilantly watching his brother's face.
'Jasper' the words of the first boy snaked across the room, heard by none other than himself. The screaming boy still screamed.
The wakened boy swung his legs to the floor, toes curling as they hit the cold floorboards. He bit his lip against the urge to say his brothers name again. His voice would go unheard, the words would be wasted.
The darkness seemed to try to hold him back, but when he reached out his fingertips brushed against damp, clamy skin. The pressure of his palms forced Jaspers chest down, out of that strange arc. Then those hands moved to cup the screaming boys' cheek, brush over his hair. Cull the scream.
Hazel eyes flickered open.
'Conor?' his voice was rough, broken from the scream.
The first boy didn't reply, his hands still moving over Jasper's hair. Knowing how to calm him. Knowing how to ease his shuddering, quickened breaths.
When Jasper was still for all but his glowing eyes Conor took his hands away.
Took a step backwards.
'Please stay?' Jasper's voice was much more tentative than his scream. He never made statements, only questions that were in constant need of reassurance and answer.
Conor reclaimed that step, looking with wide eyes that mirrored his brothers. Everything was a mirror between the two. They were the same image, copied, duplicated, repeated. Each the perfect replica of the other.
There was silence between the twins as they peered at each other, silence that had tangible substance in the thick darkness.
This itself was ritualistic. Each action was familiar, each word had been spoken before. They reenacted it like a play, following the stage directions perfectly, delivering each line how it was meant to be.
How many nights had Conor woken to Jaspers screams? How many times had he comforted his brother after the nightmare?
And yet they played it out the same every time.
Jasper broke their eye contact, wrigling his way to the far side of the bed, creating a space for Conor to fill.
His body trembled as his arms encircled his brothers chest. His entire being was consumed by the wracking shivers, shivers that faded slowly in the wake of the nightmare, in the presence of the only one who could wake him when his screams tore open the night.
Sleep was possesive, and so often heavy eyelids obeyed its beckoning and allowed the night to claim its victims. When daylight woke it would find the brothers locked and still in that comforting embrace, the glittering eyes of the screaming boy vigilantly watching his brother's face.