Transgression (Prequel #1)

9 - The Strength in Trying

There were flowers.

As much as he tried to deny their magnificence and domesticating aroma, he was simply unable. In every direction was a lilac, a tulip, blossoms and even a white pinecone. But none stood out as much as the confident red rose; gently prodded by a careful breeze. He dropped to one knee, feeling no muscles bend and no skin pulled taught, and took hold of the flower: the thorns on either side of his fingers.

The grass which cradled his weight was warm and lively. The space around him felt open like a field but shrouded in a grey impenetrable mist. An insecure burden pressured him from every direction as he attempted to pluck the flower. To his moderate surprise, the stem wouldn't budge. The wind which pushed horizontally across the vacant surface suddenly changed in an impossible way.

Now the current of air rushed at him diagonally, then vertically and even moving at high speeds away, not touching him at all. His veins knotted themselves and a panic rose. He tugged the rose again while the other flowers began to burn spontaneously, their smoke refusing to escape the confinements of his own imprisonment.

The wind turned aggressive, malicious. Redirecting its currents in such a way to drive the black smoke of the burning field directly at his face. The ashy substance scalded his eyes and left him gripping a lung while continuing to pry at the stem. Finally, as his body tilted, Alex discarded apprehension and wrapped his entire fist around the stem, piercing his flesh with eight razor sharp thorns.

Using the anchor that was his own skin, he ripped the flower up from the ground and held it high above his head, eyes wide with amazement. His hand throbbed from fingertip to elbow as a horrendous amount of blood poured down his arm and dripped onto his face. He didn't flinch, he didn't even blink; Alex just stared at the rose with a frightened smile torn across his face.

The smell of sulfur filled his nostrils as the rose suddenly followed suit and burst into flames. His grin became flat and the integrity in his arm failed. Releasing his grip, the rose began to fall. Then, a new billowing smoke erupted from the base of the stem, spewing just prior to hitting the ground and shooting out directly at him like a bottle rocket.

Alex awoke with a sharp pain in his chest; oxygen scarce and the room shrouded in palpable darkness. His eyes snapped in every direction looking for a reason behind his panic but found nothing at all. It was quiet; motionless. He reached for the floor lamp beside his bed and pulled the cord. An orange glow lit up the room and granted him a retreating heartrate. Placing his forehead in the palm of his hand, he sighed.

A dream.

Looking over at the analog clock that rested on the windowsill, he read aloud the time.

"Six." His craggy voice churned.

The realization of work today bogged his mind as he threw the sheets off his body and stammered out of his bedroom. The apartment echoed his heavy footsteps, solidifying solidarity. Although, upon exiting his bedroom and peering to the left, he felt a tiny sense of pride at the sight of a semi-clean living room. Continuing forward to the bathroom, he switched on the light and stripped down to nothing while preparing the shower. While the water heated itself, Alex attempted to pick the scab which formed over the recent dream, but it was no use; he couldn't remember any important details.

The shower seemed to come and go in a matter of seconds due to his grogginess. Once he stepped out from the curtain and welcomed the brisk air, he quickly reached for a folded towel on top of the toilet lid and dried himself off. Standing before the mirror, he ogled at his reflection with a sloping head and exhausted eyes. He used his hand to press his hair straight down; noting how the length nearly reached his eyebrows and despising that fact.