KongArtWeek2021 Collection {✓}

Day 7 - Going Down Deep into Memory Lane

AN: Reincarnation AU. The final fic of this year's KongArt Week and the finale of my two angsty oneshots here on this same book. 

Part 1 - The Journal of the Boy Who Had the Name on the Sun;    Part 2 - (Pages) Stained Scarlet 

Warning: Contains graphic depictions of violence and slight mental health issues. Also, Dubious Medical terms and Scenes up ahead.

The switching POV's might confuse you, so I'm apologizing in advance for that.

--_--

"No... please no... not him, not him... Mani, NO!"

I opened my eyes wide, my ragged breathing the only thing I heard inside the room. I looked around and found plainly coloured walls with band posters taped haphazardly on them, instead of gilded walls with lavish Victorian furnishings.

I was safe. Nobody was plotting someone's death. I didn't know any prince, and as far as I knew, I didn't have an evil stepfather. I only have a loving biological one with the name of Aroon instead of Johann.

It was that sort of dream again. The one that felt like a memory. The one that included nefarious plans against kings, queens and princes. Some dreams were of the happy sort, with me and the prince hanging out, (or on one particular dream, making out and doing... stuff, which still made me blush). But most of the time, the theme of those dreams would be focused on something dark, about betrayals, murders and tragedies.

And every time I dreamed one of those damned dreams, I couldn't get back to sleep afterwards. I was always bothered by it and kept thinking why I was dreaming of people I haven't even met. It also bothered me that I couldn't remember the prince's face even though I was pretty sure it had been clear in that cycle of REM. Afterwards, it was all just... blurry face of that one person, while the other faces, such as the evil man himself were very vivid. I didn't even remember having watched foreign historical shows so that I could dream such events up.

I checked my phone and saw that it was three in the morning. Typical. The witching hour, was it? I always woke up sometime between three and four in the morning every time I dreamt of that dream. It had spooked me at the beginning, but having experienced it for numerous times, I was just exhausted.

I sat at my desk and turned on the lamp. I began to write down what I saw in a notebook I kept hidden deep in my drawers. It wouldn't do well for my friends to find it and read it. I was afraid they would find me crazy and call my parents about it.

After I wrote out the events— this time it was the meeting with the evil stepfather telling dream-me what he was planning to the prince – I closed the notebook in frustration after I had written all that I had remembered from the new dream. I grabbed one of my comics then to pass the time. I wasn't going back to sleep soon.

--_--

I woke up crying out again. I sat up immediately and ran my hands all over my torso. My brain not satisfied with this, I ran towards my bathroom and turned on the light, blinding me for a few seconds. I removed my top so that I could check out my body in the mirror, turning this way and that.

There was nothing there, no blood, no bruise, and no scar. I leaned on the granite countertop, just trying to calm my racing heart. My limbs were still shaking at the pain that I felt, even though there weren't any lacerations in my body; a phantom pain that my brain had convinced me that I had.

The dream had been so vivid, so real, that I thought I was really there myself. But how could I be when there hadn't been any wars that plagued our land for the past decade?