ONCE UPON A DREAM

Chapter One

I opened my eyes, fumbling to silence the alarm blaring from my iPhone. I lingered in the bed, groggy gaze locked on the patterns of the ceiling above before tossing aside the covers and dragging myself to the bathroom to get the day started.

As I ran through the motions of getting ready, I still couldn't shake the dream from earlier. It had been less bloody than the nightmares I was used to, yet it still weirded me out. Vast bottomless lakes, skies devoid of birds... a monstrously large serpent that seemed to know my name, somehow? But these bizarre dreams weren't new to me; they had become a regular occurrence in my life.

I was fifteen when they started.

Dreams of a faraway battlefield littered with corpses of people I knew or had yet to meet. Grotesque, beastly creatures with large talons dripping in blood and gore. Familiar voices and faces that I could never quite make out, no matter how hard I tried. Death was lurking at every corner, and it encompassed me in its unforgiving arms. Sometimes I'd wake in the middle of the night with the scent of rotting flesh hanging thick in the air.

I lost interest in getting a full night's sleep and instead focused on sketching out as many details as I could remember as the nights passed. To cope with these night terrors, sketching it out was a constructive way for me to make sense of something that served to make no sense.

As long as I stayed awake, I was in control. Nothing could touch me.

I withdrew into myself for a while after that. Because try as I might to show everyone how real this "world" felt to me, they would all merely write me off as obsessed or tell me that I "needed to pick up a more meaningful hobby, like sports or something" (thanks Dad). From the outside looking in, I was just some kid with an overactive imagination that could probably use a bit more sleep.

Don't get me wrong, my nights weren't always like this. I'd have a break here and there where I'd get a good night's sleep. It wasn't often, but it was better than nothing.

I was now in my senior year of college. Because of that fact alone, I hadn't had a good night's sleep in about two months. But none of that mattered this morning, because as soon as I woke up, I received the best news of my life in the form of a pocket-sized email. I almost choked on my coffee as soon as I read the first line.

I'd landed an internship. And this wasn't just any run-and-grab-coffee kind of gig either. I was going to be an assistant to one of the most influential graphic artists I've followed growing up—Isshin Kataoka. He weas an author of one of the best-selling comics, Trigger. Out of the many people that applied, I'd be assisting him with producing art for the series. Me.

I signed the offer letter and emailed it back without a second thought. I practically skipped on my way to class that morning, despite dealing with Manhattan's agonizing traffic. Hardly able to contain my excitement, I spent the rest of the day bouncing from studio class to studio class.

"I'm working for Isshin Kataoka," I said aloud, for what was the hundredth time later that evening. You'd think I'd have second-hand embarrassment from mentioning it to any and every one that asked.

Not even close.

"Rumor has it that if you say his name three times fast in the mirror, he'll appear," Rokuro teased, to which I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow. We'd gathered at my apartment after our painting class had ended for the evening.

I met Rokuro when I was twelve. Apparently he'd just moved from Japan, and my mom—in her effort to help me make friends—decided it would be good to introduce us to one another. I was this quiet mixed kid with wild red hair in a predominately white neighborhood. Other kids didn't know what to make of me, and I kept to myself as much as possible, so the feeling was mutual.