What was Lost and Found in the Fire

Ch.43 Pulled and Pressed

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Sang/Cyan's POV
Location: The Lockheart Estate
Date: November 2nd
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The world around me is neither too hot nor too warm.

Another dream.

I'm standing at the end of a driveway. It's a familiar place, but I feel the echo of dread skate across my chest and the shivers running down my spine under a heavy backpack aren't from chilly, rainy weather.

It's dark, and for a moment I wonder if that's why I'm so anxious. I'm not normally afraid of the dark, but I do have a healthy amount of suspicion when the lights are off.

As dream-me looks back behind me though, I realize my fearful feelings are more emotional than instinctual. I recognize the house, with it's boring cookie-cutter shape and nondescript coloring. It always looks the same, no matter what steps I take in my dreamscape to sculpture it into something else.

I turn back to the street, shuffling my feet a little. I don't know what I'm waiting for. Am I leaving? That's what the book-bag would imply. Maybe I'm waiting for someone to pick me up? It doesn't feel like this is where I'd wait for someone though. Not in front of the menacing building of haunting memories and not in the light misting rain.

A decision is met though, and one of my feet moves on it's own to touch the black pavement of the road. I pause like that, as if waiting for someone to call out to me, but nothing comes.

I move forward, the shoes on my feet making soft splat noises as I start to walk.

It's a quiet night, and a little spooky with the lack of visibility from the rain creating thousands of sheets of liquid curtains.

Some little noise fills the night, and my fear builds in my head. What's that sound?

It's a soft, rhythmic noise. Like....paws. I realize it sounds exactly like Bardavon's soft platty-feet pounding against the street pavement.

A pressure hits me, and the world tilts, and someone's voice blurs. The world continues to turn, and the dreamscape darkens even more.

The dark blues and greens of the dreamscape melt and mix with the glimmer of the watery memory, like a water color painting in the rain, and a deep voice is over-laid with a higher, more feminine voice.

"Cyan. Wake the fuck up."

I groan, rolling around onto my belly and grasping the edges of my blanket to tighten them around me.
I still feel wet, as if the dream-me and the real-me have converged over time and space and I just fell out of the rain.
Sometimes the most vivid dreams leave me with a fading sensory imprint.
Most often those are the memories that were once important to me.

"Get up or we're gonna rumble," the voice sounds again.

I mm-mh a response. Just one more minute. I feel too waterlogged to move.

"Fine. Have it your way." I hear a soft sound, the sound of a palm smacking twice against an elbow, and instant regret fills me right before a heavy weight drops on top of me and an elbow jams into my sides.

I shriek, or what equates as a shriek for me and toss out my own elbows.

I've hemmed myself in with the blanket though, rookie mistake, and now I'm an easy target for Leninora's tickling fingers, boney elbows and jabbing knees.

I growl, flailing to get my legs out from under the thick down comforter and that's when things get hairy.
The blanket keeps me pinned, but with my feet out, I've given Leninora her favorite target. Leninora is relentless in her aim.
I burst into laughter and double my efforts to escape when her cold fingers grab onto my ticklish feet.