Death is immortality.
Death is your second chance.
Velian Terrashine belongs to a classless society of equality, art and democracy; a land full of creativity and mindfulness. It is in that perfect political system that one wrong movement, one carele...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
NIGHT-DARK HAIR and crystal blue eyes, skin so pale that spoke of death and decay. He was alone in a small, dusty room that seemed more like a cell. Sat in a corner with his bleeding hands messing with his hair, I could feel my own heart aching for him.
It was like I was part of the tears that ran endlessly down his face, part of the blood that covered his hands and bare chest. A shadow he was for the way his ribcage pointed out through his skin. Pain shot through him the moment he tried to move, and the open wounds on his palms collided with the ground. I felt it, too. It was like I was in him, experiencing his hysteria, his crippling ache, staring through his eyes at the empty room. But at the same time, I could still picture him from a distance, like an observer keeping track of their prey.
Shadows of men holding daggers loomed over the walls, looking titanic and imposing in the dim light of the room. For a moment, I wasn't sure if they were real or not because the guy panicked, and I felt the rush of terror crashing me as well. They moved toward him, their steps painfully slow, their faces not visible. They seemed like shadows. But shadows didn't laugh at their prey, didn't hold daggers and didn't stab anyone.
Yet they did.
The guy let out an awful sound as the first man stabbed him, letting the edge of the dagger dive into his flesh. That awful, deafening, shrieking sound turned into a mindless screaming for help that could have my ears and my heart bleeding in seconds. He screamed and screamed and screamed until the shadows faded away, like the wall had swallowed them, and he was left in that cell alone again, his blood-stained palms now covering his eyes in a mindless effort to ban the horrors and focus on his breathing pattern.
Then, the screaming turned into a silent cry, and as the image slipped away from my mind, I opened my eyes and willed myself to relax.
Because it was only a dream.
A dream that continued unfolding itself in my sleep every night like an unending story. Gasping for air, panting, I took in my surroundings, wishing that I could forget about that young man and fall back asleep. I was in my room, the door was closed, everything was all right. Yet the atmosphere felt tentative, my heart was beating faster than the way those shadows had disappeared and I'd seen that guy in my dreams so many times before to feel like I knew him. He was a part of my story and I was silently stepping into his own, as well.
I lay in bed, the crickets outside my window singing mellow lullabies, their beat steady and slow, unlike the beat of my heart. The house was quiet, my parents were sleeping in the room next to mine and I, like the night warder of some ancient castle, kept my eyes open, never closing them again for fear of having that vision, that dream, that guy appearing in my sleep again.
Tossing, turning, I knew that sleep wouldn't be my ally tonight. There were far too many coincidences, secrets and unexplainable occurrences that had happened tonight to let my guard fall even for a heartbeat. The dream, the drawing. I couldn't keep it hidden in the pocket of my jacket forever, not even for one more day.
