"Who are you?" I demand.
The boy in front of me replies, "That's not how this works, love."
I freeze.
That phrase.
That voice.
It can't be.
I look up but he's just a cloaked silhouette. The rustling stops when boys surrounding us step from their h...
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I must've died, or maybe I never woke up and I'm still in bed. Or perhaps, I'm still in the asylum, sedated heavily, and never was released back into the world. The evolving world with boys that can fly. I raise my shaking fingers to pinch my arm, looking at my hand while doing so. I blink hard, then pinch harder.
The boy lets out a simple 'ha' only more so a laugh, "You're not in a dream,"
"I, um," I cross my arms, not realizing I was squinting. I swallow hard, "Who are 'they'?"
What was that? Pick a better question.
"Who the hell are you? Why were you in my room, what-?" I shake my head closing my eyes, his are so piercing I need a moment. "How did you fly?"
His expression changes, he looks defensive. His smile shying away, his face becoming upset. He still though, looks so in control of himself.
"Who are you?" He steps to me.
I back up, now I'm defensive. He looks older than me, chiseled chin, wise eyes as if they've seen more than I'll ever dream of. His skin is dark and his eyes even darker. He steps closer, quicker than before and grabs my left arm, pulling it in. He shoves my sleeve up faster than he snatched my arm, revealing the almost scars. His expression changes again. A curious state overwhelms his eyes, he goes to touch the lines. I yank my arm back.
"What are you-"
"I've seen this before. What does it mean?" He asks me, lost in his own thought.
"Why did you come to my window? What are you doing here?"
"What made you do it?"
I'm surprised at his questions, though it can't last long when a bubbling anger of only questions and no answers is rising. The flying light bulb, then zips up from the edge of the building, behind the boy. It springs right at us. I flinch thinking it's going to hit me in the face, but it circles me and returns to its spot behind the boys shoulder.
"What the hell is that?" I ask recovering from flinching.
"Tell me the cause of it," he points to my arm.
He's been watching us.
Why else was he in the bedroom? Why does he want to know so bad? The sudden speak of the second voice next to me makes me flinch harder, as I forgot she was there.
"My, my mother," I'm distracted by the flying light, the cold adrenaline, and the physical appearance of the voice in my head.
"You're lying,"
"A man," my mind goes blank of reasoning.
"What does it mean-wait, the man from the brick buildings?" his face scrunching, "That doesn't make any sense,"
