(mostly filler)
I wish I could dream. I wish I could sleep, now that I mention it. But watching Tom — knowing what he'd been through... I knew my dreams wouldn't have been good. Despite knowing how much it hurt, I still yearned for it. I wanted to feel what it was like to be alive again. To experience human nature. I'd been existing somewhere in-between that and a metal grave for nearly a third of my life, and I was starting to forget what my life was like before all this. If I could choose one thing to dream about, that would be it.
I'd want to remember the first night I actually talked with Tom, and what it was we even talked about. How we realized we were practically meant to meet and wondering why we never tried to be friends before. Or when we decided never to go to another house party again when we both woke up with killer hangovers the next morning. Most of all, I think I would want to dream of when we stayed up together all night, talking and listening to the rain until it finally quit just before dawn, when Tom leaned in that first time. I'd want to remember every detail as if I were living it all over again.
Does he dream of it too?
I doubted it. As I studied Tom's sleeping patterns, it was easy to see that he hadn't had a good dream in a very long time. He tended to mutter in his sleep, occasionally startling awake with a frightened gasp. I did my best to let him know it was only a dream, but I knew it was all things that had already happened before. When you dream of the horrors of the past, it's a lot harder to convince yourself it didn't happen again. That's one thing I could never forget from my time among the living, and another reason I was grateful I couldn't dream.
Tom groaned and sat upright, rubbing his eyes sorely. I tried to get him to get more rest, but he refused. He kept telling me there was too much on his mind to sleep. I understood his trouble, so I didn't force him back to bed. He got up and made himself a cup of coffee. I stayed beside him the whole time. It was nice that Tom had a big enough house that I didn't have to struggle too much to get around. And if the hallways were too cluttered, which happened often, I could always cling to the ceiling to move around his junk without breaking anything. It was difficult, but I was willing to deal with it for Tom's sake.
Back when I was alive, I used to miss Tom so much I would curl up on the front porch and wait for him, hoping that he would change his mind and come back for me. It was stupid, knowing Tom. If he made up his mind on something, it was very hard to get him to change it. But I still hoped. I still waited. I guess I was still waiting. Neither of us were the same people we were back then. I mean, I was physically in an entirely synthetic body and had psychological damage from being shot in the head and burned "alive." That does shit to you. I mean, that did some serious damage to the way I think about things. And Tom, well, Tom blamed himself for all of it. Every child, every news heading regarding Vincent or one of Warren's damn robots. Tom took the blame for everything. How couldn't you?
Tom took his coffee cup outside to the back porch and set it down to cool off for a second, lighting a cigarette while he waited. He never used to smoke before he disappeared. To be honest, I was kind of surprised the first night I followed him outside for a smoke break. I'd always thought he hated the whole tobacco thing. But then again, living in a place like Brine City can change people in ways you'd never expect. I groaned an exhausted sigh and waited by the door for him.
I wanted so badly for him to hold me like he used to. Corny, I know, but I missed that kind of comfort. God! He'd barely even looked me in the eye since he found me again. It hurt like hell seeing the person I cared about the most avoid things like that. All he did now was sleep, get up for a cup of coffee, smoke, work, mope around, smoke again, work some more, gripe and groan about how miserable he felt, work, smoke, and go back to sleep. He did barely anything. Tom was always pretty depressed, but not like this. Never to the point where he forgot to eat, or shower, or even take the time to sit back for a moment and clear his head without a cigarette in his hand. At least when we were younger he'd do some pushups or crunches or something so he'd remember to eat. It was hard to believe he used to be an extrovert. It was miserable. Absolutely fucking miserable.
God, I wish I could sleep.
