in search of a pipe dream {galaxy/praxis}

DR. PRAXIS

In the darkness before the dawn
In the swirling of the storm
When I'm rolling with the punches
And hope is gone

We're all just ticking time bombs. Some have a short fuse, like me. Others seem to tick away for years, ready to explode and destroy everything that they work so hard to build and sustain. It's futile. Sometimes I wonder why I bother helping these lost souls to restructure their lives when I know how volatile they can be. Part of me wants to pack it all in and retire, but then who would take over? Who would watch over these souls. I am the angel tied to this world, tasked with guarding the dormant. So it would seem. My duty will not end until I myself am in a coma, or dead. Same thing, right?

I walk through the private ward, passing each bed without so much as a solemn glance at the patients. Some are in comas so deep that they will never wake up. Other are narcoleptic comatose, slipping in and out of states from day to day. I rest my hand on the life support machine of a poor soul who has been sleeping for seven months. Ripred knows what he is dreaming of, if he even is dreaming at all. Some people wake and talk about different planets, out in the cosmos. Others talk of worlds like ours, intertwined in strange ways. Some talk of a constant blackness. A dark like no other.

"Galaxy Rose-Clements" It still stings. Fifteen minutes have passed, and the masses are retreating back to their shanty homes on the edges of District Six. I haven't left this ward, but every part of my being is telling me to go. Go and see her. Galaxy, the girl who saw the stars. Aptly named then. Perhaps her name was the reason she swam in outer space. I've studied the subconscious mind for decades, and I know that seeds planted early in life often play a part in dreams and ideas.

I decide to see her before they drag her to her death. It's the least I can do after all she's taught me about the mind, and post-comatose recovery. She's a nice girl, I owe her this much, at least.

I grab my trench-coat and swing it over my heavy shoulders, making sure to leave my pistol locked in my office drawer. No doubt the Peacekeepers will frisk me before I'm allowed to see her. I guess I'm pretty protective of my patients. You try staying unattached to patients you've had for years, especially the ones who don't even know you exist. I walk at a pace towards the Justice Building, fighting against the tide of bodies heading the other way. For them, the show is over. They get to live for another year. I still remember my Reapings - It was the 32nd-38th Hunger Games. I was a scrawny runt of a lad, terrified at the very thought of the Games. Tch. I made it through, like most of the population. I never thought one of my patients would be Reaped. I'm just thankful it's one that's awake.

The Peacekeepers are from the Capitol. They all wear helmets and shiny new armor in case violence breaks out. They aren't the usual, friendly Peacekeepers that half-heartedly patrol Six. Those Peacekeepers are more or less on our side. This new bunch are nothing but soldiers. I sneer as they let me through to see Galaxy. I tell them I'm her Doctor. Hardly lying, but not the full truth, I guess.

I find her isolated in an expensive and rustic room, far too big for it's purpose - A holding cell for the soon-to-be-dead. She has her back to me, unaware of my presence - Or ignoring me? I push out my lips grumpily.
"Bet you're wondering how much of this is real, huh?" I lean against an oaken surface, polished so bright I can see my own weathered face frowning back at me. You bastard.

Millions of miles from home
In the swirling swimming on
When I'm rolling with the thunder
But bleed from thorns

words: 648, graphics: rook
theme: midnight by coldplay