Nearly ten years had passed since the sky split in two, spilling nightmares and demons that leave nothing but chaos in their wake. Nearly ten years since the very trees clawed to life, ripping their roots from the blood-rain drenched soil, bark gnarling into gnashing maws as it hunted the townspeople for sport. Nearly ten years since Dipper came face to face with the end of the world and its new self appointed master — and ten years since he watched the demon seal his own fate.
Not a day passes that Dipper doesn’t think of it. Not one month passes that Dipper doesn’t at least have one waking nightmare of it. Of him. Sometimes Dipper can’t tell if it’s just an echo of him, or if he really found some way to survive the devastation of Stan’s sacrifice. The mind plays tricks, but then again, so does he. The more the dreams come, the less Dipper feels inclined to let them happen, over obsessed, once again, with the idea of being watched by that which has but one eye.
But college boys eventually need their sleep — no amount of caffeine or strategically timed alarm clocks will keep the inevitable at bay indefinitely. School work, after all, makes a surprisingly comfortable pillow — or at least it does in Dipper’s experiences.
The floor beneath Dipper’s feet was no longer that of his college dorm, but instead the poorly unkempt mustard shag carpet of the mystery shack’s tv room. He sits slumped in the creaky armchair, static busily buzzing on the old, seventies style tube tv. The homework he once lay on took on another shape — journal number three is tucked under him, just like it would be from time to time when he awaited the arrival of his favorite ghost hunting show. Ratty shorts, stained red t-shirt; he is twelve again, it’s the summer of 2012 again. Dipper peels himself off the pages of the journal, the thin layer of summer sweat dampening the crisp paper.
The paper before him bears the frantic scribblings of the author, of Great Uncle Ford, and his warnings of him. Of the being with just one eye. Suddenly, Dipper is very aware of the feeling of eyes on him — all eyes were on him, from the haunting cuckoo clock to the images on Mabel’s discarded magazines, all eyes were on him, and they all glowed a distinct yellow.
“ H-Hello? ” Despite the way his surroundings have gone back in time, he seems to have stayed put in his own time, voice only carrying the memory of his pre-teen years, “ This can’t be happening, this is just a dream. ”
Like always, this is just a dream, he can’t really be here.
@fyramids from dipper pines // EHZDUH WKH RQH HBHG GHPRQ
