Every night he dreamt the same dreams, his face twisted, distorted into a mad caricature of his usually angelic visage. Every morning he woke, shivering in the half-light of dawn as the last traces of adrenaline dissipate, slowly leaking from his blood stream. Leaving him drained, ruined and empty after his hollow rest. He dreams of shadows moving, obscured beneath the twilight of the canopy – of the hunt, of the eternal chase played out, dreams of predator and prey. He spends each night, twitching and rolling in his sleep – he spends his days in a bewitching state halfway between the sleep that eluded him and the vigilance that is expected.
He dreams of long grass swaying before his eyes, of hunters unable to see past their own guns, picking their noses. Each night he dreams – of roles reversed, of the apex predator challenged in the grasslands. Of swaying howdahs beneath the midday sun. He wakes each day, having found his way to her feet at night – wakes confused and stretching in answer to her early morning grumblings. His foster mother moves softly around him, as softly as she can on those towering legs. Never knowing how he sees her after his long night living in the memories of his ancestors, a race war stretched over millennia.
Each night Mr Tibbles dreams of tigers.
This story has been on my mind for a while, had to get it out…and along comes with the words angelic, ruined and foster. Thanks as well to Steph at for Unable to See Past Their Own Guns and Picking their Noses