He awoke to a dream of fire. One of disaster and catastrophes and maybe, just maybe, what was to come. That's what it always was, but he hoped that just this once it was nothing but a dream. He was lying on his back, the asphalt digging into it, a reminder that he couldn't get himself to stand. Around him, flames of red licked at the concrete buildings. Not a person but himself was to be seen, nor anything pointing towards life at all. There was just him and the fury of flames. Flames. His breathing sped up as they moved towards him, somehow burning the asphalt despite it's very non-flammable material. He was dying. It didn't hurt, but still he felt like it should've. Panic rose in his chest as they closed in on him, like angry hands gripping at his clothes and skin. It didn't hurt. Why didn't it hurt? Tears ran down his cheeks, evaporating before they reached the ground. He wouldn't move. He couldn't move. His vision was engulfed by red, and all he could do was sleep.
With a jolt and a gasp Ridley sat up in his bed, putting his hands to his head as if checking whether it was really there. Cold sweat ran down his bare back and down his forehead, plastering his black hair to his skin. The hair that ran down his shoulders was slightly damp as well, like he'd been sweating for ages. He took a deep breath, swallowing audibly as he closed his mouth afterwards. Scratching his neck absently, he looked around him.
The room was dark, the only light coming from a lonely scented candle on his windowsill. The curtains were drawn. Speaking of fire-hazards. His gaze flickered over to the rest of the room. Messy and disorderly, yet he still had some sort of system. Herbs hung from the walls, some scentless, others with a hint of smells that gave the bedroom some of it's charm. Papers were scattered across the floor. Only a few of them were actually atop his desk, which was instead cluttered with plants and a bowl with smashed leafs and water. He couldn't remember what he was making last night, so he'd probably have to throw it out, lest he'd end up making something he really, really didn't aim for. Bookshelves were placed by the door, filled to their breaking points with books in no particular order. He wasn't planning on sorting them either. Witches were supposed to be messy, he was just doing his job. He was proud of the mess. He could find everything he wanted, when he wanted. Except maybe his clothes. Then again, he was pretty sure they hid from him. Not his fault.
His phone rang. Didn't quite fit the setting, did it? The metallic beeping pulled him out of his thoughts. It ruined the rustic setting of his room, like he was pulled out of a different time period. He reached over, putting his fingers on the screen to slowly pull it off the nightstand and onto the bed, within full reach. He just wanted to laze around, why'd he need responsibilities? He didn't. However, he had the suspicion that he knew exactly who was calling, and she didn't take lightly to being ignored. He put the phone to his ear, yawning as he pressed the button to answer. He was right.
"Morn, Ridley."
"Night, Bea." A chuckle from the other end forced a smile onto his face. She was as magical as him, but in a much more charming and mundane way.
"I take it you're not actually up yet?" He waved his hand around, not caring that she couldn't see it.
"Ding, ding. We have a winner." A loud bang could be heard from his kitchen, and Ridley raised his brow as he turned to look at the door. Well. It could wait. Probably. He felt oddly like a schoolgirl, lying on his tummy and kicking his legs back and forth as he waited for Beatrice to talk again. However, she was silent. for a bit. Waiting as well.
"You're not gonna check on that?"
"It was Maurie. I'm sure of it. Like, at least fifty percent." Another chuckle from Beatrice. He sat up in his bed, and rubbed his neck. Sure, it was certainly Maurie, but he had to admit he was sort of worried about just what the little devil had knocked over. His worries temporarily disappeared as Beatrice spoke.
