terminatefate (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
terminatefate) wrote2009-07-23 01:57 pm
terminatefate) wrote2009-07-23 01:57 pm
never mind the fire
AUGUST 29, 1986
LOCATION: Somewhere in Mexico
TIME: Early morning
___________________________________________
She woke cold, with the date screaming across her mind. It wasn't yet, but it was the day. It was always today that she could fucking see it everywhere. Everywhere. Her sleep had been plagued with Metal. Burning red eyes, flesh melting to reveal bright, shiny metal, her son screaming. Sweat beaded her forehead as she stared up at the ceiling of the motel they'd managed to grab the night before. It was firelicked, burnt, bombed out. It wasn't really, but it looked that way to her. It was August 29th, how could it not look that way? Her breath came quick, labored, as she struggled to stuff down the panic and horror.
"Mom?" Sarah Connor turned her head to stare at her five year old son, her blue eyes wide. "What do you see?" Her eyes fluttered closed as if she were trying to break through to another goddamn world where she didn't see this shit. Where she didn't see her son on fire, his skin crisping, flaking, his eyes popping. She breathed in sharply and swallowed, her hands curling against the tacky mauve comforter until they were tight and her knuckles were white. "Mom. Tell me."
He was a little boy.
He wasn't a little boy.
He was five and he was twenty, he was old and young and trying to understand the world of guns, of metal, of danger that he'd been born into. She didn't want to tell him what she saw, but she would, and she'd do it in that cold, detached voice. Sweat rolled down her cheeks like tears. Mom. Tell me. It was an order. She almost laughed at the solemn tone, but didn't as his fingers curled around her hand and squeezed.
"It's burning," she said hoarsely. "Everything. I look there," she pointed with her free hand to an alarm clock that flashed 5:55am, "and the plastic is melting, fire eating it down. I look up and the ceiling is black, cracked, fire ravaged."
"And me?" he asked, still solemn.
Sarah stared at him and opened her mouth to answer him. Nothing came out but a strangled cry and she bolted upright. His fingers tightened and he pulled at her. She glanced down at their entwined fingers and watched the flames crisp her own skin, exposing bone.
"I know what to do," John said in a soft whisper. "I'll fix it." He let go, disappeared into the bathroom, and she heard the hiss of the shower. His fingers were wet, cold, when he came back and tugged her up, got her moving. The bathroom tiles were melted, misshapen, some broken, and the shower curtain was half melted. John pushed her into the cold water carefully and she gasped as it stung her skin. She stayed there for three, four, five hours and he sat there with her, cross-legged on the tile, just talking.
He talked about finding bugs and worms, about the sea they'd visited a week before. He crawled in beside her and wrapped his arms around her when she cried out. John Connor. John. Her son. Her son.
"Mom?" The shower was off and they were both shivering, both clinging to each other.
"Yeah?" Her voice cracked with exhaustion.
"You're not crazy," he said. "And I love you."
"I love you, too, John," she whispered and leaned her head back against the cold Mexican tile. "I love you, too."
LOCATION: Somewhere in Mexico
TIME: Early morning
___________________________________________
She woke cold, with the date screaming across her mind. It wasn't yet, but it was the day. It was always today that she could fucking see it everywhere. Everywhere. Her sleep had been plagued with Metal. Burning red eyes, flesh melting to reveal bright, shiny metal, her son screaming. Sweat beaded her forehead as she stared up at the ceiling of the motel they'd managed to grab the night before. It was firelicked, burnt, bombed out. It wasn't really, but it looked that way to her. It was August 29th, how could it not look that way? Her breath came quick, labored, as she struggled to stuff down the panic and horror.
"Mom?" Sarah Connor turned her head to stare at her five year old son, her blue eyes wide. "What do you see?" Her eyes fluttered closed as if she were trying to break through to another goddamn world where she didn't see this shit. Where she didn't see her son on fire, his skin crisping, flaking, his eyes popping. She breathed in sharply and swallowed, her hands curling against the tacky mauve comforter until they were tight and her knuckles were white. "Mom. Tell me."
He was a little boy.
He wasn't a little boy.
He was five and he was twenty, he was old and young and trying to understand the world of guns, of metal, of danger that he'd been born into. She didn't want to tell him what she saw, but she would, and she'd do it in that cold, detached voice. Sweat rolled down her cheeks like tears. Mom. Tell me. It was an order. She almost laughed at the solemn tone, but didn't as his fingers curled around her hand and squeezed.
"It's burning," she said hoarsely. "Everything. I look there," she pointed with her free hand to an alarm clock that flashed 5:55am, "and the plastic is melting, fire eating it down. I look up and the ceiling is black, cracked, fire ravaged."
"And me?" he asked, still solemn.
Sarah stared at him and opened her mouth to answer him. Nothing came out but a strangled cry and she bolted upright. His fingers tightened and he pulled at her. She glanced down at their entwined fingers and watched the flames crisp her own skin, exposing bone.
"I know what to do," John said in a soft whisper. "I'll fix it." He let go, disappeared into the bathroom, and she heard the hiss of the shower. His fingers were wet, cold, when he came back and tugged her up, got her moving. The bathroom tiles were melted, misshapen, some broken, and the shower curtain was half melted. John pushed her into the cold water carefully and she gasped as it stung her skin. She stayed there for three, four, five hours and he sat there with her, cross-legged on the tile, just talking.
He talked about finding bugs and worms, about the sea they'd visited a week before. He crawled in beside her and wrapped his arms around her when she cried out. John Connor. John. Her son. Her son.
"Mom?" The shower was off and they were both shivering, both clinging to each other.
"Yeah?" Her voice cracked with exhaustion.
"You're not crazy," he said. "And I love you."
"I love you, too, John," she whispered and leaned her head back against the cold Mexican tile. "I love you, too."