Astraphobia

Claire wakes up to someone screaming. She jerks up in bed, frantically grabbing at the sheets before she realizes that the voice is her own. She is screaming.

Her voice cuts off with a gurgle and she gasps, one hand grabbing at her throbbing head. She is sweating; her cotton tank top sticky on her skin as she struggles to heave her covers off of her. Her heart is pounding and the walls around her seem to be tilting.

Her phone rings, cutting through her panic attack. She grabs at her nightstand and manages to get the phone open and to her ear, no small feat with how badly her hands are shaking. "Hello?"

"Claire? Are you there? Please tell me you're there!"

"Serah," she chokes out, clutching the phone with both hands and curling into herself, like the stance can offer protection. "It's you."

"Oh, Claire," her sister wails, close to tears. "You're alive! You're alive and I'm alive. I had just had the worst nightmare ever, and I woke up and Snow had the same dream, and then I had to call because it felt so incredibly real. It was terrifying. I was dead! I was dead and you... You..."

"I know," Claire says, beginning to finally catch her breath. She's no less anxious, but remaining calm for Serah is a long ingrained instinct. "I'm betting I had the same dream."

"About me dying, and you being the Savior?"

"That's the one."

Serah falls silent, perhaps still as shell-shocked as Claire is feeling right then. Claire's mind reels. She'd fallen asleep in bed while studying for a midterm. Her textbook is still on the floor where she dropped it before she turned off the light. A jar of hazelnut spread is still on her nightstand; she'd bought it the night before, to dip granola bars in while she studied. She has a midterm in two days and a paper due next week, and another due the week after that.

Yet, despite that sure knowledge of what she did last night, it's like her memory is split in half. Down one path lies last night's events, but down another is what she had done in the dream. Just as vivid as her book and her snack is the memory of fighting for the sake of humanity, of killing a god.

"It was just a dream, right?" Serah whispers into the phone.

"It has to be." Claire's voice quivers, a sure sign of how much this is affecting her. "It just has to be."

"Claire... Can you come over?" Serah's voice is small and worried. "It must have just been a dream, but... I can have Snow pick you up if you don't want to drive."

"I'm fine." Claire forces her body to stop shuddering. "I'll be right over."

Snow and Serah live twenty minutes away. Claire keeps the radio on in her car and tries to ignore the phantom memories that are still threatening to overtake her. She grips the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles whiten, and ignores the little voice in the back of her head whispering that Lightning would not be afraid. Lightning would take this entire situation in stride. Lightning would saunter coolly into her sister's apartment with a game plan in mind, and marching orders to boot.

But Claire is not Lightning.

Snow and Serah look as wrecked as she feels, where they're sitting on their couch. Snow has already pulled out the hard liquor, and Claire takes a glass with an appreciative murmur. They sit there in the dim light of the living room's lamp, all lost in their own thoughts and twisted memories. Claire tries to override the flickering images of Lightning, tries to cover them up with everything that has happened in this life, in her life. She thinks about how she dealt with her parents dying, and how she helped raise Serah, and how she reacted to meeting Snow, and she hates how many parallels there are between the two. It's not real she makes herself think. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.

Snow is the first to break the silence. He downs his glass of scotch with an audible gulp and sits back. "Well," he says, balancing the empty glass on his knee. "We don't know if that was real or not. Pretty damn crazy that we all had the same dream. But we can take something from this vision or hallucination or whatever. Now we know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that no matter the situation, Claire is always willing to give me a good hard sock to the face."

The comment is just what they need. Serah bursts out laughing and Claire cracks a smile. "And don't you forget it," she tells Snow, relaxing a bit into the couch and nursing her drink, secretly grateful for the release of tension.

They don't talk about it. Serah turns on the television and they watch late night talk shows. Her sister falls asleep on Snow's shoulder, but Claire and Snow both stay up the entire night, watching the screen and trying not to think.

Over the next few weeks, Claire comes to the conclusion that the dream was real. That somehow, she and her family led an alternate life on a different world. That somehow they survived terrible ordeals, and Serah died, but Claire somehow brought everyone back to life. That apparently they've been reborn here, and in doing so, lived an entirely new life, to replace the old one.

She has no concrete proof, but she sees when total strangers recognize her. She feels the spark of recognition as well, and remembers helping someone buy medicine or retrieve a toy or reconcile with a loved one. Invariably, the people she sees turn away. They don't want to deal with the insane situation any more than she does. But the fact remains that they do know her and she knows them.

They know that what happened was real.

Serah is the one to bring up their missing comrades. "Have you thought about trying to find some of them?" she asks her sister as she makes dinner. "If it was real, then they must be out there somewhere. They must remember us too."

Claire sighs from where she's sitting at the table grating cheese. "I don't think so."

"Why not? We were all such good friends."

"Exactly. Were."

Serah tastes the sauce, makes a face, and starts rummaging through the spice cupboard. "You don't think we'd be good friends now?"

"I don't know. I don't know if I care to find out."

Serah adds something to the sauce, tastes it, and smiles. Mission accomplished, she turns her full attention to Claire. "We're still the same people, Claire. We just lived a different life."

Claire doesn't respond. But Serah reads her disagreement in her face and sighs. "Are you sure you don't want to find Hope?" she asks, done with beating around the bush.

Lightning would have torn the world apart to look for Hope. She would have made every sacrifice, fought every battle, done whatever it took to ensure his safety.

But Claire is not Lightning.

"No. I just want to let it be."

Serah considers this, and then nods and turns back to the stove.

A month passes, and then another. The memories of the other world start to fade a little, which is a relief for Claire. Though she still dreams of that other place, she writes them off as just that. Dreams. She has a life to live, and she intends to do so. She loses herself in school and work and resolutely ignores the one thing about the other world that still burns in her memory.

She cannot make herself forget the green of his eyes.

But Claire is stubborn. She's just as stubborn as Lightning, and she will not go back on her decision. He may be out there somewhere, but he doesn't know Claire. He knows Lightning. And she's not going to waste her time on someone attached to a memory.

Seven months after the night she woke up from a different life, she's late for a lecture. Fall has turned to winter and the snow is slushy on the ground. She forgot her gloves when she left her apartment, and her fingers and face are numb when she finally reaches her building. She takes a moment to stamp the snow off her shoes and brush off her shoulders, and then she looks up and freezes.

Someone behind her bumps into her and grunts in annoyance, but her attention is across the atrium. He's standing there, looking just as stunned as her. He's tall, an adult again. His hair is still a silver mess and his eyes are still a vibrant green, the deep rich color that haunts her dreams. Claire swallows and reaches up to grab her backpack's straps; the harsh material against her palms anchors her to reality.

It's him. It's him and he's here and he's real.

His lips are moving but she can't read them. He takes a step forward and she takes a step back.

Lightning wouldn't have stepped back. Lightning would have stepped forward, would have walked up to him with confidence. Lightning would have been elated to see him, though he would have had to search her eyes and the planes of her face to see any hint of that joy. Lightning wouldn't be so terrified she could barely breathe.

But Claire is not Lightning.

She pivots on her heels and takes off, heedless of the other students she's shoving past and their indignant cries. She hears him call out, but he calls the wrong name, and she shakes her head and stumbles through the door. Once she's out of the building, she starts running and doesn't even pause when she hears him shout after her.

Lightning would have stopped.

But Claire is not Lightning.

Claire is not Lightning.

She's not, she's not, she's not.

Notes

Had this idea tonight, and just kind of ran with it. I think I'm going to have quite a bit of fun writing for this game.

I hope you enjoyed, and please remember to review! It really does make me smile!

SJ