Little Dream and the Colour of Tears

"Wake up, wake up, cried Little Dream, concentrating, trying hard not to miss the sounds that It waited for. Instead, Little Dream heard everything else — the definite tick of the wall clock every 60 seconds, the urgent murmur just beyond the doors, cellophane being ripped, some thing hollow being dropped in the dustbin, the frequent scratching of pen on paper, ripping of the paper, some more scratching, some more ripping, the phone ringing somewhere, two cellphones with the same ring tone too, Little Dream's own heart beat and the sound of disturbed sleep from the body lying next to It.
"Wake up, there's no time, please wake up!" The breathing was ununeven the rhythmic rise and fall of the swollen breasts broken by unconscious sobs. There were no tears. The lack of tears worried Little Dream a little: Did everything else dry up with the tears as well? But there was no time to be lost thinking about unshed tears, there never was. The Hour was close. And then Little Dream heard it. The sounds It had been waiting for.

Chairs being pushed back, files taken out, voices discussing, someone asked the time, a tray pulled out, things being put on it, footsteps heading towards where Little Dream and the Body lay...
"Wake up please, they are coming,. We have to go. Now. If there has to be a tomorrow; we have to go now..." And then suddenly, there was movement. The eyes opened — no fluttering, no hesitation — they had been shut a while, now they just opened. One hand went straight to Little Dream and caressed it, the Voice making little cooing noises that Little Dream had grown used to in the last eight weeks.
"I like that very much," Little Dream said, "But we have to go...there will be time for all this later, I promise." The hand stopped caressing...was joined by the other hand too. Both Hands rested with their palms flat on Little Dream, feeling It all over. Hesitantly, lovingly, assuredly, wonderingly, with force, pressing, caressing as if trying to believe that Little Dream was really there.
"I am here, I won't go away, I am here, but we have to go, we..."
The Hands jerked away as if scalded by Little Dream's skin; Little Dream hurt that the caressing stopped. But the urgency of the hour forbade further discussion. And then Little Dream heard the Voice speak.
"I can't, I can't..." the Hands came back to hold Little Dream, the Body rocked and the Voice whispered hoarsely, "I can't, there's nothing, no support, no cash, nothing, who will...?"

Little Dream got really scared. The Hands were pressing It down, the Voice, paranoid. This was no time for hysterics! "No, don't think like that," cajoled Little Dream, "there's Hope, there's Love, there's Us...you are strong, we will be together, I will look after you..."
"You are just a Little Dream -- there's a long way to go. They won't let you. They won't let me if I keep dreaming about you either," the Voice was small, pleading, sick with guilt. Little Dream did not like the sound of guilt, It so wished It could see the Eyes. Little Dream had never seen the eyes. Maybe never would? Little Dream could not afford to think like that.
"So I am just a Little Dream, but you made promises, you DREAMT me, you said you could take a Little Dream further, nurture it; and now you are selling me for your own freedom."
Little Dream could feel the shock through the stillness of the Hands. But there was no time for kindness. Little Dream did not relent.

"Yes, that's what you are doing. You could dream me but you cannot carry me through because you are scared. Scared at all that it would take you to see me through. So you want to sell me for your freedom, for your life. My life against yours. Accept it, you are a coward. Accept it. ACCEPT IT!"

Little Dream had been screaming, It didn't hear the doors open. But It heard the Voice begin to quaver, the breathing intensify and the Body stiffen.
"This first, the other two later," said another voice. A flap being torn, another, water being poured into a glass.

"Don't do it," whispered Little Dream. Silence. Where were the Hands? Why weren't they caressing? Where was the Voice, why was it silent?

"These choices are never easy. But it's your freedom; after all, it's your Life," said the other voice again and the door closed, footsteps gradually receded.
"Don't do it," said Little Dream, "please talk to me, what are you doing?"
Little Dream felt the Body move, heard the glass being picked up, heard the water going down the oesophagus. Little Dream realised what was happening as the Hands came and rested on It gently.

"It's done," said the Voice. It was steady. Little Dream felt the bitterness begin to seep into It's blood stream, the oxygen being flushed out slowly. It felt the lungs collapse, the brain begin to unravel its long threads, the bones slowly, slowly crunching inside. Little Dream began to feel the sleep coming, it was dark, it was stale and it stank of napthalene balls.
"You let it happen?" said Little Dream, "But why create me th..."
Little Dream disintegrated and it was all over in one big blob of blood and gore.

Post Scrap: "Give it to me," the Princess screamed, spread-eagled and chained to the floor. Even as Death laughed and bounced the Rag Doll in it's hands, the Princess cried, "What have you done?" looking aghast at the blood between her legs. "It's...its blood," she sobbed. "Don't be silly," Death replied, "It's not blood. It's just the colour of your tears; your water broke."