ḾṎᕍ⁅ᖇṈ ℄Ṏv⁅ | The Lost Boys

ᏨᏲᾀᑬt⁅ᖇ tᏲḭᖇtẙ-ᖴṎᙈᖇ

I sat bolt upright. I was not in a treehouse or the sky, but the cave again. That dark, dreary cave—just like in my dream. It took me a moment to remember everything, the vision melting from my mind like snow.

It was pitch black, and at the same time it wasn't.

The darkness is actually several different shades of near-black colors I'd never noticed before. The craggy chamber was enveloped in hues of indigo, and emerald, and rust, and navy, like a kaleidoscope of shadows, the world's most beautiful painting.

Standing not three feet from me were my lost boys. David. Dwayne. Paul. Marko. They no longer wore leaves for clothes but leather and bloodstained jeans.

My hand falls to my stomach. There is no gaping wound or torn flesh. My gut is smooth and the offending bloody stake not laid two feet away from me, I could've believed it was all a bad dream.

"I'm alive?"

My gaze falls to the ground. There, on the floor, was a dead person. Their limbs jutted in awkward angles, their skin ashen from lack of blood.

Frightened, I covered my mouth—maybe to stop a scream, or maybe out of impulse. But I touched something cool and wet, smeared across my lips.

Trembling, I lowered my hand. Blood.

"You're one of us, now."