Torn Souls

6. Twas not a dream

"You're just dreaming!" The boy pleaded, waving his hands in innocence.

"Yeah, like hell I am." George slowly got up, but didn't walk any closer. "So who. The hell. Are you." He didn't ask, just demanded.

The stranger walked towards him. "Listen, George everything is fi-" the boy realized saying his name would only send him into more of a panic.

"Oh, you know my name too. Of course." He said sarcastically and more to himself, "NO! Don't 'listen George' me." He spat out. "Who the hell are you. Why are you here? In my appartment?"

"Please I'll explain just listen." Both of their eyes were filled with fear. The boy because he had gotten caught, George because there was a random person, who wasn't even solid, in his apartment.

The stranger took several steps closer. George's hand felt around behind him for his book. His hand closed around the hard cover, launching it at the boy's torso, but much to his suprise, it went through. "WHAT THE HELL!"

"Okay please stop." He looked tired, he just wanted to explain. George was frozen in shock, confusion, and tiredness. The boy walked to George and stuffed his favorite monster in one hand and a thornless white rose behind his ear. He snaked one arm in the small of George's back and held onto one of his wrists, guiding him to the couch.

They both sat down, George looking at the- the- he didn't know. "Oh. Oh my god what the hell?!" The green eyes, the hoodie, the freckles, the sandy blonde hair.  He connected the peices. The boy from the trains?

"Listen, I'll tell you as much as I can." He swallowed, unsure of how to put it or how George would react. "Im a ghost. I can turn solid pretty much when I want, however, it has to be good cause or in private. I can't act like I'm still alive." He smiled at George who's eyes were still huge. "You weren't supposed to know. I was here- here to uh... help you. Y'know without you knowing. But now you know. And you cannot tell anyone."

George took a deep breath. He knew he would make the most of this situation. "Okay uh Dream. I'll call you Dream. Because you just insisted  that thats what this was -is. And clearly it's not." The ghost snorted at his joke. "How do you know about me. About," he shook the monster a bit in his hand, "who I am and what I like?"

"I've been watching over you for a while now." He let go of George and leaned back into the couch. "When a human," he gestured to George, "is sad and going down a bad path, like what you tried today, we," he gestured to himself and to the ceiling, "get sent down to help."

George's cheeks filled with a rosey red color from embarrassment. Putting down the pink can or monster, he burried his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. "Oh my god." He muttered, his head racing with thoughts.

Dream sat up quickly, rubbing George's back. "Hey, no no." He frowned, "everything is okay. It'll be okay. You're fine."

"I don't need pity." George stood up, and grabbed his monster. He walked to the kitchen and put the monster in the empty fridge. Reaching up into the cabinet next to it, he found a spare glass.

"I'm not here to give pitty." The ghost across the room grew more solid, maybe in hopes to calm the riled up brit.

"Yes, you are. I don't need pitty." George didn't sound angry, just tired. Like he was a burden yet another person would have to deal with. He filled up the glass with water and placed the rose inside. "Please, just give me time... to think." He walked out of the room. Maybe the feel of the water running down his back would calm him.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He hated his reflection. He was the definition of skin and bones, nothing more. His hair was always a mess and had a mind of its own. He always hated the color of his eyes, dark brown. Borning, He always thought. There was no color, no nothing. Just a solid color, like two voids leading to nothing. They looked beady, only bringing out the bags under his eyes. They were nothing like Dream's. His were a brilliant green with a light hazelnut color exploding from the center. He hated his own reflection. He wanted to smash the mirror into a thousand tiny peices. He wanted to feel the shards cutting through his hands. To see the crimson blood running down his pale, small hands. But he couldn't afford to fix it, and he knew looking at a broken mirror would be worse than looking at a broken boy in the mirror.