Chapter 2
Peregrine
THE NUMBER OF nightmares I create within a week alone is immeasurable. Do you know how many people fall asleep at once all around the world? When the moon rises and the sun burns out in one place, twilight is falling somewhere else... and it starts all over again. At least until midnight of the thirteenth—the day I become normal for twenty-four hours down on Earth: the fourteenth of every month.
The Subcouncil came up with this day of release for all the Dreamweavers and suggested it to the Big Guy upstairs. Long story short, He said yes, but only to help with evangelism and spreading His word. It’s actually one of the requirements of the day off—talking about God. And I do, only it’s more to myself than anything.
My hands dance in the air as I chuckle at the nightmare before me. The old man has only been dreaming for a little while, and I can already hear his heart racing throughout the room. The blackness around the checkerboard floor pulses with the color red as the shadows dance around him, changing their size, but not their shape. They only change for the world created for the Sleeper; I can see them and what they’ve become, but the shadowy wisps stay floating around them, unlike in the nightmare. The Sleeper can see the colors and the world around him or her as if he or she were actually, physically there. I, on the other hand, don’t. I simply think of what I want to happen in the dream, and it becomes.
Everything suddenly freezes around me. For a moment, I’m unsure of what is happening—and then my brain finds only one solution: the Subcouncil wants to see all the Dreamweavers. God suspends time on Earth for them to hold their trials, meetings, and gatherings. If there is ever a warning for which it is, I always miss it, even though I don’t care to know.
A whirlwind of light explodes through the darkness, the Shadows dispersing. I remember when there were white as snow, my shadows, but I’m unsure of why they’ve changed, and why they cower from the light. I flash over to it, afraid my minions will burn up, and stretch out my wings. The skin anchoring the feathers ache as they open, longing for a flight. The soft feathers below the larger ones glow white, while the others soak up every bit of light with its blackness.
With one heave, I’m off the ground, and, with my soundless wings, I fly straight up and through the hole of light. Whiteness appears around me, gold-paved sidewalks placed everywhere. Wings glisten in the brightness, stinging my eyes. Living in a dark room for most of your time in Heaven and only coming out for a day a month can do that to you. If I were anything but an angel, I’d be blind by now.
I dart to the building on the left side of where most mansions sit upon the clouds, keeping my eyes focused on its gold walls. I never received a house like the other Earthlings who became angels, but then again, I don’t know if I had died or if I even had a life before I became the Nightmare Dreamweaver. And, if I did remember, what did I do to earn and enjoy a life like this, isolated from everyone but my Shadows, which are hardly beings? I only remember accepting the job, and I’m unsure of how much time had passed beforehand and until now.
My black shoes touch down on the path leading to the tall, rounded doors. I clench my trembling fists and take a deep breath before setting one foot in front of the other. As I draw close, the doors elegantly swing open, the only sound coming from what it hides inside. Angels, singing, bronze skin bathed in light.
I enter, seeing every Dreamweaver in existence milling around, conversing. Me, I choose a corner and lean against it, folding my wings behind me as I wait for this gathering to begin its session. There’s a warm feeling that whispers through my veins as I look out onto the pastel-based clothed crowd, dancing and singing, and rejoicing in the Lord’s glory. A forced shiver rattles against my bones, crushing out the pleasantness. The utter warmth frightens me away; I haven’t felt it in a very, very long time, as I’ve been locked up in my corner of Heaven for a while now.
Soft chiming rings above the ruckus, calling this meeting to session. Everyone parts down the center, revealing a long, oval table as three gossamer-winged angles place themselves at the end. The Subcouncil has arrived.
They were appointed by God himself to watch over the Dreamweavers and to make sure we’re obeying the rules we’ve all had to memorize over the years. Do not harm the Sleepers, touch the Sleepers, lie to the Sleepers, give them false hope, etcetera. There are several of them, however I know I’ve followed them all. They’re branded in my brain for eternity—how could I ever forget them?
“The Heads of the Dreamweavers, take a seat.”
The three angel’s voices echo like a church bell across the never-ending crowd of Dreamweavers. There are millions of us waiting to see why we’ve been summoned to this place—why all of us have been asked to show up here. Most of the time, it’s only a few of us called, or one Type’s group per calling, but it’s all of us this time. It makes me curious as to why as I move forward from my questions.
I am not the first to weave my way to the oblong table and take a seat, but one of the last. Several others who had processed the instructions quicker had made it there first. Of course, it’s no competition, I just don’t like to be... last. Or second. No one understands what I do and how I come about the idea of creating these horrors at night for the pathetic Sleepers. No one knows how good I am at doing it, or praises me for it. And I want my work recognized. It’s gone unnoticed for far too long.
Once everyone is seated, the three angels look out over the surface of the table where all eyes dart to them, eleven pairs closer than the rest of the crowd’s, including mine, resting at the opposite end of the table.
“Things are changing rapidly on Earth,” the center angel says, Herchel. “We want you to use your Dreamless days wisely, and to do that, we have something to explain and suggest to you.”
Chayiel, the angel to his left clears her throat. “First of all, we wanted to remind you of our most important rule: don’t let the Sleepers remember you. This will cause problems and they will begin to ask questions. If they enter your Dreamscape and both see and remember you, wake them and let the Head Dreamweavers know. And if you are the Head,” she pauses, leaning forward as everyone’s ears perk up. The Head Dreamweavers are those above their Dream Type. I’m the Head of Nightmares, but I’m also the only angel to weave them. “It’d be in your best interest to let one of us know before it gets out of hand. For if we find out you’ve kept it a secret...”
“You’ll be replaced,” Zaphreal chimes in.
I roll my eyes at the speech we’ve all heard millions of times before as whispers and murmurs make their way around the oval table. The shimmering of soundless wings dance around my vision as I try to understand exactly why we were asked to be here again. Surely it couldn’t only be because they wanted to remind us of our duties.
Herchel takes the floor again, interlocking his fingers on the table. “I will now talk about your Types individually and briefly. What you make of this talk is something you must work out yourself and amongst your Type. If you don’t particularly know where to start, pray about it and come see us. We’ll try and help you through it. And, because the past dreams that have been woven effect what you need to incorporate into your next Sleeper’s dream, listening is advised.”
Zaphreal spreads out papers in front of him that I hadn’t noticed were there a moment ago. “Daydreamers: the humans have stopped daydreaming as much due to advances in technology and the sheer inclination of focus put into negative reflection on one’s past. In other words, they aren’t as bored and don’t think about their future or what they could be if they wondered more, or about God and who He is to them.”
“Gibborim with your False Awakenings: you’re taking too long to let them wake up and start what it is you’re trying to show them,” Chayiel nods, shifting her own papers around.
“Madan, your Lucid Dreams are getting way out of hand and you’re gripping too hard on their mind. Loosen up and don’t freak them out as much,” Herchel warns. “You’re also keeping their mind too active for too long. They need to sleep at least a little bit during the night.”
“Recurring Dreams with Pravuil, try and change something every now and then, otherwise the dream has no purpose and the Sleeper will never learn.”
Chayiel, not missing a single beat after Zaphreal, continues with the list, and I dread that I’ll be the last. Nightmares are always the last up here. They don’t do any good, really, except make the Sleeper glad he’s alive.
“Healing Dreamers: make sure you work faster. We’ve had a lot of close-calls lately before someone was hurt or had an attack. Also make sure you know your Dreamer’s health issues. It should come to you soon after appearing in your Dreamscape, but I fear that lately you all have become lazy. You each have one person. Make sure you know them well and you take care of them.” Herchel nods once at the Head Healing Dreamer before Zaphreal opens his mouth again.
“Prophetic Dreamers: get your prophecies right. Some of you haven’t gone to talk to or pray to God to see if you’re correct about some things and God has had to clean up your mess. Like the Healing Dreamers, you are getting sloppy and lazy.” Zaphreal takes a breath. “And on that note, if you begin to slack, you will be replaced as well.”
“What happens to us if we’re replaced?” The words slip out of my mouth.
Every eye turns to me, wondering the same thing. I’ve only known of a few Dreamweavers who have disappeared, but the “where” is the unknown factor in the so-called threat, should it not be called a rule.
The three angels look at me and my heart starts hammering in my chest. I fold my arms one over the other and stare back at them.
“That is something for another time, Peregrine,” Chayiel says, narrowing her eyes.
“But aren’t you supposed to be transparent with us?” I ask carefully. I must tread lightly. “Why is it so secret?”
“Because it’s for God to decide your punishment or fate, not ours.” Herchel’s voice is light and absent of any anger. “Now, if you don’t mind, Peregrine, we must finish.” He stretches his wings and continues. “Signal Dreamers: pay attention to what your Sleeper needs.”
“Epic Dreamer,” Zaphreal announces as Adimus looks up from his notepad full of glorious sketches. He definitely has a gift from God. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”
I grit my teeth. He’s so... perfect. It explains why he gets to do the epic dreams, one to help make someone feel as if they’ve discovered themselves when they wake up. The results are same for me, only it awakens the part of Sleepers that they are too closed off to show: fear.
“Progressive Dreamers: you’re solving the Sleeper’s problems too slowly,” Chayiel comments, motioning to the ninety-nine other Dreamweavers that stand behind their Head. “They’re going to find themselves even more lost than before if you don’t step it up.”
“Mutual Dreamers, I want you two to stay in sync with each other. Find the bond between the two people that share the dream and feel it yourself. Then you will strengthen them.” Herchel smiles softly.
“Last but not least,” Zaphreal finally utters, turning to look my way. “Nightmares.”
I sit up straight, waiting to see what it is they will tell me. Am I screwing up? Will I be replaced? Or will I finally be recognized for my efforts, like Adimus always is? Is this my moment for a pat on the back? My heart teeters on whether I really want to be acknowledged for my terrors or if I want them to be left in the dark where they belong. Of course, I want the recognition I’ve been neglected of for as long as I can remember, but... it’s as if everything would feel wrong if I’m praised for these nightmares I create.
“Wake up.”
I take a moment, confused and unsure of what he just said. “Come again?”
“Wake up, Peregrine. The sickness of fear has become enjoyable to you and you no longer have a purpose in your created terrors. Find the purpose.”
“Nightmares are supposed to be an indication of a fear that needs to be acknowledged and confronted. So wake them up. Not in a literal sense, but in a spiritual one.” Zaphreal stands with the other two angels. “Dreamweavers, if you have any further questions, I suggest you ask after we conclude this meeting.”
“And now to the heavy part.” Chayiel crosses her arms, holding her hands her dark hands before her. “As we said, times are changing, and so we must as well. Numbers will drop and increase in different places to sway the Sleepers and to put them back on track. We must pay close attention to our Sleepers, and we must stretch our memory and our minds to remember and create. Everything that they experience in your Dreamscape must mean something. You must not forget that.”
“And on your Dreamless day, whichever you have assigned to your Type, I suggest you look around and study the world the Sleepers live in. Otherwise you won’t understand where to start with their dreams, their flaws, their fears...” Zaphreal glances upward, his bronzed skin shimmering in the light coming from the sky above. “When you return to your Dreamscape, you will notice something different. There will be a single book in the center of your floor with your name on it. The spine will increase in width, depending on your number of Sleepers. This is where you will take notes on them. Each one of them will have a section, and you will help them all.”
There’s a terrible silence that fills the room as the words seep in. The words and their fears simply used to come to me, but now I must put thought and reason in something completely and utterly... unreasonable. Dreams are unpredictable, illogical—especially nightmares. How is this supposed to work?
“I know what some of you are thinking,” Herchel intervenes. “The amount of work you have to do is unbearable, especially those of you that are the only Dreamweaver in your Type. But God will help you through it and time will move slower as you write, giving you space between your Sleepers.” He pauses, looking out at all the questioning eyes, whose mouths below begin to break the silence with their noise. “Good luck, and may God be with you. Dismissed.”
Some Dreamweavers leave immediately, whereas I sit until the table and chairs around me have disappeared. The only one remaining is left beneath my own body, waiting for me to stand. I watch as the line to talk to the three angels shortens and then disappears, as if time is moving by quicker than I’d want it to.
“Peregrine?” Chayiel asks, breaking my trance as everything around me slows. “Do you have a question?”
I hesitate, afraid to ask the only question that has stuck with me over the years, however long it’s been since I became... this. As I contemplate, they watch me expectantly, making my heart guard itself by building a wall around it. I can’t ask them. Not now, and maybe not ever.
“No,” I stand, pushing aside my self-pity and letting the bitterness I feel well inside my mouth. “I guess I’ll get a head-start on that heavy book you’ve placed upon our fragile shoulders.”
I open my wings and fly to the door, which swing toward me as I approach. My feet find their way out and I make my way back to my Dreamscape, my room, and darkness surrounds me once again. It doesn’t choke me; it embraces me and accepts me in ways I cannot explain, but also in ways I’m not entirely sure that they’re good. Here, I am accepted possibly in the worst way.
I slide into my chair and, for a moment, struggle to recall where I was going with this old man’s dream as I pull my attention from the large, open book sitting on the other side of him and his Shadows, his Monster twice his size and looming over him. And then it returns to me like the parting of a sea, making me tired and wish tomorrow was the fourteenth. His is the same fear most everyone has, everyone but me for the fact that I cannot.
“Ah, yes,” I breathe. “Death.”
The Subcouncil came up with this day of release for all the Dreamweavers and suggested it to the Big Guy upstairs. Long story short, He said yes, but only to help with evangelism and spreading His word. It’s actually one of the requirements of the day off—talking about God. And I do, only it’s more to myself than anything.
My hands dance in the air as I chuckle at the nightmare before me. The old man has only been dreaming for a little while, and I can already hear his heart racing throughout the room. The blackness around the checkerboard floor pulses with the color red as the shadows dance around him, changing their size, but not their shape. They only change for the world created for the Sleeper; I can see them and what they’ve become, but the shadowy wisps stay floating around them, unlike in the nightmare. The Sleeper can see the colors and the world around him or her as if he or she were actually, physically there. I, on the other hand, don’t. I simply think of what I want to happen in the dream, and it becomes.
Everything suddenly freezes around me. For a moment, I’m unsure of what is happening—and then my brain finds only one solution: the Subcouncil wants to see all the Dreamweavers. God suspends time on Earth for them to hold their trials, meetings, and gatherings. If there is ever a warning for which it is, I always miss it, even though I don’t care to know.
A whirlwind of light explodes through the darkness, the Shadows dispersing. I remember when there were white as snow, my shadows, but I’m unsure of why they’ve changed, and why they cower from the light. I flash over to it, afraid my minions will burn up, and stretch out my wings. The skin anchoring the feathers ache as they open, longing for a flight. The soft feathers below the larger ones glow white, while the others soak up every bit of light with its blackness.
With one heave, I’m off the ground, and, with my soundless wings, I fly straight up and through the hole of light. Whiteness appears around me, gold-paved sidewalks placed everywhere. Wings glisten in the brightness, stinging my eyes. Living in a dark room for most of your time in Heaven and only coming out for a day a month can do that to you. If I were anything but an angel, I’d be blind by now.
I dart to the building on the left side of where most mansions sit upon the clouds, keeping my eyes focused on its gold walls. I never received a house like the other Earthlings who became angels, but then again, I don’t know if I had died or if I even had a life before I became the Nightmare Dreamweaver. And, if I did remember, what did I do to earn and enjoy a life like this, isolated from everyone but my Shadows, which are hardly beings? I only remember accepting the job, and I’m unsure of how much time had passed beforehand and until now.
My black shoes touch down on the path leading to the tall, rounded doors. I clench my trembling fists and take a deep breath before setting one foot in front of the other. As I draw close, the doors elegantly swing open, the only sound coming from what it hides inside. Angels, singing, bronze skin bathed in light.
I enter, seeing every Dreamweaver in existence milling around, conversing. Me, I choose a corner and lean against it, folding my wings behind me as I wait for this gathering to begin its session. There’s a warm feeling that whispers through my veins as I look out onto the pastel-based clothed crowd, dancing and singing, and rejoicing in the Lord’s glory. A forced shiver rattles against my bones, crushing out the pleasantness. The utter warmth frightens me away; I haven’t felt it in a very, very long time, as I’ve been locked up in my corner of Heaven for a while now.
Soft chiming rings above the ruckus, calling this meeting to session. Everyone parts down the center, revealing a long, oval table as three gossamer-winged angles place themselves at the end. The Subcouncil has arrived.
They were appointed by God himself to watch over the Dreamweavers and to make sure we’re obeying the rules we’ve all had to memorize over the years. Do not harm the Sleepers, touch the Sleepers, lie to the Sleepers, give them false hope, etcetera. There are several of them, however I know I’ve followed them all. They’re branded in my brain for eternity—how could I ever forget them?
“The Heads of the Dreamweavers, take a seat.”
The three angel’s voices echo like a church bell across the never-ending crowd of Dreamweavers. There are millions of us waiting to see why we’ve been summoned to this place—why all of us have been asked to show up here. Most of the time, it’s only a few of us called, or one Type’s group per calling, but it’s all of us this time. It makes me curious as to why as I move forward from my questions.
I am not the first to weave my way to the oblong table and take a seat, but one of the last. Several others who had processed the instructions quicker had made it there first. Of course, it’s no competition, I just don’t like to be... last. Or second. No one understands what I do and how I come about the idea of creating these horrors at night for the pathetic Sleepers. No one knows how good I am at doing it, or praises me for it. And I want my work recognized. It’s gone unnoticed for far too long.
Once everyone is seated, the three angels look out over the surface of the table where all eyes dart to them, eleven pairs closer than the rest of the crowd’s, including mine, resting at the opposite end of the table.
“Things are changing rapidly on Earth,” the center angel says, Herchel. “We want you to use your Dreamless days wisely, and to do that, we have something to explain and suggest to you.”
Chayiel, the angel to his left clears her throat. “First of all, we wanted to remind you of our most important rule: don’t let the Sleepers remember you. This will cause problems and they will begin to ask questions. If they enter your Dreamscape and both see and remember you, wake them and let the Head Dreamweavers know. And if you are the Head,” she pauses, leaning forward as everyone’s ears perk up. The Head Dreamweavers are those above their Dream Type. I’m the Head of Nightmares, but I’m also the only angel to weave them. “It’d be in your best interest to let one of us know before it gets out of hand. For if we find out you’ve kept it a secret...”
“You’ll be replaced,” Zaphreal chimes in.
I roll my eyes at the speech we’ve all heard millions of times before as whispers and murmurs make their way around the oval table. The shimmering of soundless wings dance around my vision as I try to understand exactly why we were asked to be here again. Surely it couldn’t only be because they wanted to remind us of our duties.
Herchel takes the floor again, interlocking his fingers on the table. “I will now talk about your Types individually and briefly. What you make of this talk is something you must work out yourself and amongst your Type. If you don’t particularly know where to start, pray about it and come see us. We’ll try and help you through it. And, because the past dreams that have been woven effect what you need to incorporate into your next Sleeper’s dream, listening is advised.”
Zaphreal spreads out papers in front of him that I hadn’t noticed were there a moment ago. “Daydreamers: the humans have stopped daydreaming as much due to advances in technology and the sheer inclination of focus put into negative reflection on one’s past. In other words, they aren’t as bored and don’t think about their future or what they could be if they wondered more, or about God and who He is to them.”
“Gibborim with your False Awakenings: you’re taking too long to let them wake up and start what it is you’re trying to show them,” Chayiel nods, shifting her own papers around.
“Madan, your Lucid Dreams are getting way out of hand and you’re gripping too hard on their mind. Loosen up and don’t freak them out as much,” Herchel warns. “You’re also keeping their mind too active for too long. They need to sleep at least a little bit during the night.”
“Recurring Dreams with Pravuil, try and change something every now and then, otherwise the dream has no purpose and the Sleeper will never learn.”
Chayiel, not missing a single beat after Zaphreal, continues with the list, and I dread that I’ll be the last. Nightmares are always the last up here. They don’t do any good, really, except make the Sleeper glad he’s alive.
“Healing Dreamers: make sure you work faster. We’ve had a lot of close-calls lately before someone was hurt or had an attack. Also make sure you know your Dreamer’s health issues. It should come to you soon after appearing in your Dreamscape, but I fear that lately you all have become lazy. You each have one person. Make sure you know them well and you take care of them.” Herchel nods once at the Head Healing Dreamer before Zaphreal opens his mouth again.
“Prophetic Dreamers: get your prophecies right. Some of you haven’t gone to talk to or pray to God to see if you’re correct about some things and God has had to clean up your mess. Like the Healing Dreamers, you are getting sloppy and lazy.” Zaphreal takes a breath. “And on that note, if you begin to slack, you will be replaced as well.”
“What happens to us if we’re replaced?” The words slip out of my mouth.
Every eye turns to me, wondering the same thing. I’ve only known of a few Dreamweavers who have disappeared, but the “where” is the unknown factor in the so-called threat, should it not be called a rule.
The three angels look at me and my heart starts hammering in my chest. I fold my arms one over the other and stare back at them.
“That is something for another time, Peregrine,” Chayiel says, narrowing her eyes.
“But aren’t you supposed to be transparent with us?” I ask carefully. I must tread lightly. “Why is it so secret?”
“Because it’s for God to decide your punishment or fate, not ours.” Herchel’s voice is light and absent of any anger. “Now, if you don’t mind, Peregrine, we must finish.” He stretches his wings and continues. “Signal Dreamers: pay attention to what your Sleeper needs.”
“Epic Dreamer,” Zaphreal announces as Adimus looks up from his notepad full of glorious sketches. He definitely has a gift from God. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”
I grit my teeth. He’s so... perfect. It explains why he gets to do the epic dreams, one to help make someone feel as if they’ve discovered themselves when they wake up. The results are same for me, only it awakens the part of Sleepers that they are too closed off to show: fear.
“Progressive Dreamers: you’re solving the Sleeper’s problems too slowly,” Chayiel comments, motioning to the ninety-nine other Dreamweavers that stand behind their Head. “They’re going to find themselves even more lost than before if you don’t step it up.”
“Mutual Dreamers, I want you two to stay in sync with each other. Find the bond between the two people that share the dream and feel it yourself. Then you will strengthen them.” Herchel smiles softly.
“Last but not least,” Zaphreal finally utters, turning to look my way. “Nightmares.”
I sit up straight, waiting to see what it is they will tell me. Am I screwing up? Will I be replaced? Or will I finally be recognized for my efforts, like Adimus always is? Is this my moment for a pat on the back? My heart teeters on whether I really want to be acknowledged for my terrors or if I want them to be left in the dark where they belong. Of course, I want the recognition I’ve been neglected of for as long as I can remember, but... it’s as if everything would feel wrong if I’m praised for these nightmares I create.
“Wake up.”
I take a moment, confused and unsure of what he just said. “Come again?”
“Wake up, Peregrine. The sickness of fear has become enjoyable to you and you no longer have a purpose in your created terrors. Find the purpose.”
“Nightmares are supposed to be an indication of a fear that needs to be acknowledged and confronted. So wake them up. Not in a literal sense, but in a spiritual one.” Zaphreal stands with the other two angels. “Dreamweavers, if you have any further questions, I suggest you ask after we conclude this meeting.”
“And now to the heavy part.” Chayiel crosses her arms, holding her hands her dark hands before her. “As we said, times are changing, and so we must as well. Numbers will drop and increase in different places to sway the Sleepers and to put them back on track. We must pay close attention to our Sleepers, and we must stretch our memory and our minds to remember and create. Everything that they experience in your Dreamscape must mean something. You must not forget that.”
“And on your Dreamless day, whichever you have assigned to your Type, I suggest you look around and study the world the Sleepers live in. Otherwise you won’t understand where to start with their dreams, their flaws, their fears...” Zaphreal glances upward, his bronzed skin shimmering in the light coming from the sky above. “When you return to your Dreamscape, you will notice something different. There will be a single book in the center of your floor with your name on it. The spine will increase in width, depending on your number of Sleepers. This is where you will take notes on them. Each one of them will have a section, and you will help them all.”
There’s a terrible silence that fills the room as the words seep in. The words and their fears simply used to come to me, but now I must put thought and reason in something completely and utterly... unreasonable. Dreams are unpredictable, illogical—especially nightmares. How is this supposed to work?
“I know what some of you are thinking,” Herchel intervenes. “The amount of work you have to do is unbearable, especially those of you that are the only Dreamweaver in your Type. But God will help you through it and time will move slower as you write, giving you space between your Sleepers.” He pauses, looking out at all the questioning eyes, whose mouths below begin to break the silence with their noise. “Good luck, and may God be with you. Dismissed.”
Some Dreamweavers leave immediately, whereas I sit until the table and chairs around me have disappeared. The only one remaining is left beneath my own body, waiting for me to stand. I watch as the line to talk to the three angels shortens and then disappears, as if time is moving by quicker than I’d want it to.
“Peregrine?” Chayiel asks, breaking my trance as everything around me slows. “Do you have a question?”
I hesitate, afraid to ask the only question that has stuck with me over the years, however long it’s been since I became... this. As I contemplate, they watch me expectantly, making my heart guard itself by building a wall around it. I can’t ask them. Not now, and maybe not ever.
“No,” I stand, pushing aside my self-pity and letting the bitterness I feel well inside my mouth. “I guess I’ll get a head-start on that heavy book you’ve placed upon our fragile shoulders.”
I open my wings and fly to the door, which swing toward me as I approach. My feet find their way out and I make my way back to my Dreamscape, my room, and darkness surrounds me once again. It doesn’t choke me; it embraces me and accepts me in ways I cannot explain, but also in ways I’m not entirely sure that they’re good. Here, I am accepted possibly in the worst way.
I slide into my chair and, for a moment, struggle to recall where I was going with this old man’s dream as I pull my attention from the large, open book sitting on the other side of him and his Shadows, his Monster twice his size and looming over him. And then it returns to me like the parting of a sea, making me tired and wish tomorrow was the fourteenth. His is the same fear most everyone has, everyone but me for the fact that I cannot.
“Ah, yes,” I breathe. “Death.”
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