Categories > Comics > Sandman > A Hole in the World
A Hole in the World
0 reviewsDelirium tries to be who she used to be, but it isn't all that easy. A crossover with Angel: The Series.
1Insightful
Disclaimer: I did not create and do not own either Angel: The Series or /The Sandman/. This fanfiction is merely for fun, and I do not intend to harm the rights of creators or copyright holders.
Author's Notes: The first name Delirium thinks up is a screen name I saw on fanfiction.net, and the title of the story is one of the Angel episode titles in season 5. This is not me ripping things off ... this is, uh, always being open to inspiration!
Her name changed, once, without her knowing about it. Well, she no, she had known about it - she had to, because it was like an axe through her head that made the world look upside out in her mashed mind - but she hadn't known what it was or how to stop it.
She thinks, though, that there isn't any reason why her name couldn't change again. Maybe it could be My-name-is-no-one-you-can-see-but-someone-you-can-hear. Because that was true, people couldn't always see her in front of them but they could hear her voice blowing bubbles in their brain juice.
Like when she tells Mr Worried Man to say hello to her sister for her, after's he's said goodbye to his wife.
Mr Worried Man nods sharply as he walks on, wrapping the coat that hides his gun tightly around himself, and he whispers to himself that he hadn't heard anything, just working out a crick in my neck, not nodding, just /checking up on what Margie's doing, no harm there... /
Mr Worried Man's not very nice. He's so deep inside his head that sometimes even she can't speak to him. So she thinks about maybe-names again, because the last one doesn't seem to be sticking. Even though the new name she thinks of is true, her name won't change to what it is so that she can be who she was.
Inspiration explodes in her like sherbet, and she dances to the hymn the woman shouts from the alley corner. Maybe thinking of a true name is the problem! The name she has now is another way of saying You-can't-see-without-seeing-me, and that was never the one she wanted to be.
There must be something new, something old, something else so people can stop crying when they find her and she can stop having to find herself to see why they do it.
Colin looks her in the face and his knees wobble in surprise. He smiles, and she begs him to ask her for her name so she will know what to tell him. After all, everyone can give their name when asked.
Colin can't find her at all. He looks at the unravelling laces of his shoes and the tiny veins at the tips of his fingers; and when she asks him to ask again he walks down, under the street and into the subway, and he stares at a poster and begins to giggle, nodding.
There was her name, on that poster in a big squashy picture and written down in big black letters: This Is Your Brain - This Is Your Brain On Drugs.
Beautiful, she thinks, seeing Colin's veins again with the kind of eyes that find things inside your head; a name so pink and curved was the best she could have hoped for, and the squashiness added texture. But it was a bit long to say the ordinary way, and maybe there was a middling mouthful of a word to use?
She realised that there was indeed a smaller word. It went D-E-L-I-R and then ended with a scream and scream and scream, because that word hurt.
This is all.
She thinks - and turns around, so she can dodge the thought - and thinks anyway, as the angry thought makes her so dizzy that she turns around again: She is her name. She's not like Dream or Morpheus or Oneiros or Kai'ckul who can be everyone's everything and still one thing to himself.
There is only one name for her. She is the name because it is true, and the name won't leave to let her be someone else.
The thought crawls everywhere until she has to step away from her skin, and she listens to someone somewhere whimper as they see it. The person laughs with relief as her skin runs and embraces her, strangles her, swallows her, making her who she is and will always be.
She can't shake out of it again but she keeps trying, shaking hard as she walks the streets of the City of Only A Few Angels and the minds of those around her, shaking until she thinks the shaking is using her instead of the other way around.
Then her path hits two feet, and smashes like a wave that's hit a cliff.
The shakes flee in shock. She almost runs away too, because she can't remember anything like these feet. The have nowhere to slide in and up and out through the top of their head - and they do have a head, she can see so! Every synapse showing the way is clear, but they refuse to understand her attempts to touch them.
She steps back and opens all her eyes to look at the being that can not know her.
There is no colour to this being, except for the one that finds its way to everything: blue. She is something that you're far away from, and can still see as you move further away, while she gets bluer with distance.
There is no one else like this anymore; no one else is so empty and so solid. This one sees as everyone saw, long ago, and believes what she knows because she knows it, no matter if the rest of the world does not.
The lack of living stops walking and looks upon her, and speaks in a tone of simple acknowledgement, not polite and without disrespect: "Lady Delight."
Relief wants to draw out tears, but they rage with tumultous joy and she fears that they might take her back to the other part of herself. So she simply smiles at the goddess and says, "Sometimes."
Author's Notes: The first name Delirium thinks up is a screen name I saw on fanfiction.net, and the title of the story is one of the Angel episode titles in season 5. This is not me ripping things off ... this is, uh, always being open to inspiration!
Her name changed, once, without her knowing about it. Well, she no, she had known about it - she had to, because it was like an axe through her head that made the world look upside out in her mashed mind - but she hadn't known what it was or how to stop it.
She thinks, though, that there isn't any reason why her name couldn't change again. Maybe it could be My-name-is-no-one-you-can-see-but-someone-you-can-hear. Because that was true, people couldn't always see her in front of them but they could hear her voice blowing bubbles in their brain juice.
Like when she tells Mr Worried Man to say hello to her sister for her, after's he's said goodbye to his wife.
Mr Worried Man nods sharply as he walks on, wrapping the coat that hides his gun tightly around himself, and he whispers to himself that he hadn't heard anything, just working out a crick in my neck, not nodding, just /checking up on what Margie's doing, no harm there... /
Mr Worried Man's not very nice. He's so deep inside his head that sometimes even she can't speak to him. So she thinks about maybe-names again, because the last one doesn't seem to be sticking. Even though the new name she thinks of is true, her name won't change to what it is so that she can be who she was.
Inspiration explodes in her like sherbet, and she dances to the hymn the woman shouts from the alley corner. Maybe thinking of a true name is the problem! The name she has now is another way of saying You-can't-see-without-seeing-me, and that was never the one she wanted to be.
There must be something new, something old, something else so people can stop crying when they find her and she can stop having to find herself to see why they do it.
Colin looks her in the face and his knees wobble in surprise. He smiles, and she begs him to ask her for her name so she will know what to tell him. After all, everyone can give their name when asked.
Colin can't find her at all. He looks at the unravelling laces of his shoes and the tiny veins at the tips of his fingers; and when she asks him to ask again he walks down, under the street and into the subway, and he stares at a poster and begins to giggle, nodding.
There was her name, on that poster in a big squashy picture and written down in big black letters: This Is Your Brain - This Is Your Brain On Drugs.
Beautiful, she thinks, seeing Colin's veins again with the kind of eyes that find things inside your head; a name so pink and curved was the best she could have hoped for, and the squashiness added texture. But it was a bit long to say the ordinary way, and maybe there was a middling mouthful of a word to use?
She realised that there was indeed a smaller word. It went D-E-L-I-R and then ended with a scream and scream and scream, because that word hurt.
This is all.
She thinks - and turns around, so she can dodge the thought - and thinks anyway, as the angry thought makes her so dizzy that she turns around again: She is her name. She's not like Dream or Morpheus or Oneiros or Kai'ckul who can be everyone's everything and still one thing to himself.
There is only one name for her. She is the name because it is true, and the name won't leave to let her be someone else.
The thought crawls everywhere until she has to step away from her skin, and she listens to someone somewhere whimper as they see it. The person laughs with relief as her skin runs and embraces her, strangles her, swallows her, making her who she is and will always be.
She can't shake out of it again but she keeps trying, shaking hard as she walks the streets of the City of Only A Few Angels and the minds of those around her, shaking until she thinks the shaking is using her instead of the other way around.
Then her path hits two feet, and smashes like a wave that's hit a cliff.
The shakes flee in shock. She almost runs away too, because she can't remember anything like these feet. The have nowhere to slide in and up and out through the top of their head - and they do have a head, she can see so! Every synapse showing the way is clear, but they refuse to understand her attempts to touch them.
She steps back and opens all her eyes to look at the being that can not know her.
There is no colour to this being, except for the one that finds its way to everything: blue. She is something that you're far away from, and can still see as you move further away, while she gets bluer with distance.
There is no one else like this anymore; no one else is so empty and so solid. This one sees as everyone saw, long ago, and believes what she knows because she knows it, no matter if the rest of the world does not.
The lack of living stops walking and looks upon her, and speaks in a tone of simple acknowledgement, not polite and without disrespect: "Lady Delight."
Relief wants to draw out tears, but they rage with tumultous joy and she fears that they might take her back to the other part of herself. So she simply smiles at the goddess and says, "Sometimes."
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