#the ���con artist’ has a chronic illness and nothing of value to trade but their dead parents’ book collection

[kayzero]

Quark’s Dreamlike Defibrillation Drabble

You’re sleeping.

Nothing else makes sense.

“Clear.”

Yeah, why else would you feel your heartbeat so clearly? So strong that it’s a little bit painful, beating so heavily that it leaves achey little aftershocks in your chest after every pulse. Thundering and powerful, like you’ve received a shock of lightning from the king of gods himself.

But you only just learned of gods, of Zeus, of Olympus. It was a brand new story from a brand new book—not a super old book from Before, but something totally new. Something made just for you.

It was better than that one book that con artist tried to trick you with—that thing was super old and super thick, yeah, and normally you like that kinda stuff, but only ‘cause you like stories, and people have only barely started writing good stories again, just like people have only started having kids again.

The guy said that it was like a thousand stories in one book, that the book was only falling apart since it was so long and so old, and obviously it was worth a whole bunch just because it was a… it was… an ant-fall-chief…?

“Anthology?”

It was a stupid word, you just started calling it a book-book, ‘cause it was a book full of books, Grandpa said it had full stories instead of chapters!

Grandpa is dead.

…No, he isn’t…

“…”

Yeah… he just got you the best Christmas present ever, just last month. That con artist jerk wanted to sell you the book-book for half of that day’s scavenge, and it was a really really good day of scavenging too! He didn’t even do any work himself, and there wasn’t anything wrong with him either, ‘cause he had to run to catch up with you, and he wasn’t even puffing afterwards, and he had to carry that stupid book with both arms ‘cause that’s how bad it was falling apart.

He just wanted a bunch of your stuff for nothing, nothing but a stupid book that maybe you were a little bit interested in, sure, but you’re not stupid like he musta been, and you told him so and you walked away, pulling your smaller part of the haul while Grandpa pushed his heavier cart behind you.

Grandpa is dead.

It jolts you like a second thunderbolt, it must have gone from your chest up to your brain, because your lungs catch and your nose hurts and your face feels wet. It feels like you’re crying, which reinforces the idea that you’re dreaming, because you were crying on that day too, after you told that con artist off, because you really really did want that book, but you needed supplies more, and your scavenge was so big that Grandpa had to make three trips to trade it all.

You have to be dreaming because he can’t be dead like your brain is trying to tell you, because he wouldn’t leave you alone. Even when you thought you were alone and you it was safe to cry because you really wanted the book full of books, he must have still been there because he knew, and the very next month on Christmas Day he gave you your own story book.

Your book was brand new, made just for you. Every chapter was for a different group of gods from different religions that didn’t worship Brother and Radical-6, and every page had a different god, with their own description and summary and a few fun facts and a list of ‘Myths’, which were all super awesome stories that could be told verbally, so they didn’t take up space and make the book super huge so it would never fall apart.

Every night before bed, you could pick out a new Myth, like how Zeus saved the Olympians and became the King of the Gods, and Grandpa would tell you the story, and it would be the last thing you heard before you fell asleep, which was way better than just reading them.

Grandpa is dead.

The thought thunders through your head, another shock to your system, another bolt from the divide… No…? The defied? Delight? Dim light…?

“Divine...”

Divine. Dih v-eye nn. Godly, or of godlike quality. A new word that you just learned from your new book that you just got for Christmas just last week. Why would you use a new word you only just heard, or think about a king you only just read about, or feel your heart beat way too strong in the wrong part of your chest, direct center of your chest, the middle of your body, perfectly aligned to receive and deliver blood everywhere evenly, except every diagram ever says that it should be somewhere off to the left, between your lung and your ribs.

Painful heartbeat, impossibly centered, painful thoughts, impossibly overpowering.

But anything is possible in a dream.

So you let the distressing thought wash away, dream that it gets pushed down your bloodstream with every beat of your thundering heart, and watch it get smaller and smaller as it slowly disappears, along with the last of your divine tingles.

…You wonder if there are any gods of sleep.

Probably, right?

After you wake up, you’ll look in your book and ask grandpa—

Grandpa is dead.

—when the nightmare is finally gone.