Bruce doesn't dream.
He never has, really - at least, not that he can remember. He never even had nightmares from the night his parents died. Maybe that's why; maybe he just subconsciously trained himself to not dream after that night, in fear of the nightmares that were sure to come. But the point is that he does not dream.
And yet.
The dream always starts out the same, every night, every time he closes his eyes and slips into the embrace of sleep. He's in a pitch-black room, one so dark that he can't see his hands even when he raises them right in front of his face. He knows, somehow, that he can walk for hours without coming into contact with anything - walls, furniture, anything at all to indicate that he was even in a room. Yet he knows that he is, although he's not sure why, as there really is no reason for him to know that.
The dream changes, after a while of walking. He knows that he won't find anything, no matter how far or how long he walks. This place is empty, desolate even. It fills him with dread every time. The change is never consistent, always bringing him to a different place each night.
(Once, it was a dusty old bedroom, one that made his heart ache, although he didn't know why. He had taken notice of the various space-themed decorations, the model rockets and NASA posters and stars on the ceiling. It was clearly a child's bedroom, but it hadn't been used in a long time. Another time, it was a darkened lab, illuminated only by the strange vials of green liquid lined along the many, many shelves. Bruce had wondered, after he had awoken, if it was Lazarus Water, but that felt wrong. It was something else. Something more. It had made him uneasy, and he got the feeling that something terrible had happened there. He didn't get a chance to investigate the gaping hole in the wall before he had been whisked away to another part of the dream.)
This time, he is in a brightly-lit white lab, and he has to blink stars out of his eyes at the abrupt change in lighting and color. He looks around; it seems like a typical lab, but everything is pure white, except for a green stain on the table. He can feel bile rising in his throat at the sight of the cuffs on the table, and though he still doesn't know what the green substance is, he gets the horrible feeling that it's blood. A lot of it.
He uses what little time he has to investigate the lab. There is an abundance of medical supplies, but many look unused, with the exception of the scalpels. The pit in his stomach continues to grow. Why were there so many? He reaches toward a vial of red liquid, wrong wrong wrong this is wrong, when the dream changes again.
Now he's in what is clearly a cell, except even the cells in Arkham aren't this bare. The only thing it contains is a familiar white-haired teenager, who is chained to the floor with cuffs that glow the same green as the vials of Lazarus Water that he's seen before.
Though Bruce has never learned his name, he has been in every dream, the one constant (besides the empty room, of course) in each one. The kid has never spoken, never done more than watch, but Bruce has always gotten the feeling that he was the reason for these strange dreams.
He knows that he should be more worried. If some kind of meta has managed to get inside his head, there's no telling what could happen. But he can't bring himself to be. Something is wrong, and it's not the teenager.
He can't help but think of his own children.
Something feels . . . off this time. The kid isn't looking up, isn't even moving - he seems limp, almost, as he kneels on the ground, weighed down by the chains keeping him there. Green blood - Bruce knows it's blood now, it has to be - drips from his still figure, pooling on the ground underneath him.
Bruce can't move. He desperately wants to, what could he even do? but it's like he's frozen in place. He can only watch as the teenager slowly, agonizingly, looks up at him, his bright green eyes dull and filled with fear and desperation and hope and -
Bruce wakes.
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Job hunting is literally a nightmare for me. After my last awful job experience last year i needed a few months to get back on my feet and now that I'm looking for a new job I'm terrified at the idea of having to meet employers and convince them that I could be good for them when i barely believe this myself. I'm definitely in a place right now where i don't really think I'm good at anything and it's hard to find a job when you're in this state of mind.
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The Spider Queen of Forgotten Hollow...
Henley Arania
- Legends have long surrounded the elusive Spider Queen of Forgotten Hollow. Said to have escaped into the forest after the unfortunate death of her one true love, she became a recluse, preferring the company of spiders and chasing away the many who have since tried to hunt her down.
The legends don't mention, however, that if you ask nicely (and approach without pitchforks), she might invite you in for tea. It does get awfully quiet in the woods, after all, and the spiders don't know much sim gossip.
Henley is a remake of the first sim I made and posted on Tumblr that I recently made over! You can also see some before and after photos here 😉
[transcript under cut]
Henley: *shrieks*
Oh..? You come in peace?
Well... I guess that's alright, then. Would you like some tea?
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I've been seeing more and more this idea that there are "simple" mental illnesses, like MDD, and it's really alarming the way people engage with those who they deem have "simple" illnesses.
Like, take for instance, how I saw somebody post how depression isn't "an excuse to be lazy" as though depression is as simple as "meh, I don't feel like doing things".
The thing about these "simple" disorders is that they are disorders. My depression has, to put it plainly, robbed me of much of my life. Depression isn't "laziness", it is the actual inability to do important things. Depressed people? We know that we have lives to attend to, but we aren't able to attend to them because we have a disorder. The inability to do the things we need or want to is, in fact, usually a major sign that we are depressed or have a depressive disorder in the first place.
Not to mention that depression is comorbid with other disorders such as panic disorders, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and other trauma disorders, body image disorders, and so, so many other disorders that makes our depression that much harder to address in many cases.
I really need people to stop sticking their nose up at people they feel superior to. These disorders - even in their own - are already complex enough. We don't need to know that you think we're awful people because we display the literal symptoms of our disabilities.
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