Carmiabell: The Black Apple

Chapter 2

If someone were to paint a picture on canvas of the chaos the black apple could lead to—rampage, carnage, war, and perhaps a touch of poetic suicide—barely scratching the surface would still be an understatement of the mess it symbolized. To put it simply, we were about to plunge headfirst into a world of trouble that would make even the most twisted of fairy tales blush with embarrassment.

The black apple lay there, glistening like a dark, forbidden jewel, a siren’s call to every black dreamer—commonly known as nightmares—lurking in the shadows. Trust me, they harbored nothing but malevolence, a malevolence that seeped from the very core of its existence.

Mrs. Nana, my history teacher, often recounted how, for over a century, ever since the universal elixir had been invented, no black dreamer had gone untreated. She instilled in us a sense of hope, assuring us that black dreamers were mere figments of imagination, that they didn’t exist. Most nightmares, she said, fell into the realm of gray dreams, regarded as the lowest rank and the least fortunate in life after their treatment.

Yet, my own experience with the black apple—the nightmare’s lanera—challenged this narrative and ignited my doubts. The bite mark on its side proved it had a darker past—one in which it had been consumed by someone else before being callously discarded. This revelation pulled at the threads of the world I thought I understood, unraveling the certainty I had always relied on.

“Is that—” Phoebi said, her voice a low whisper as her eyes widened at the sight of my unyielding gaze locked onto the apple.

“Shh!” I shushed her, pressing my index finger to my lips in an exaggerated hush. I had a feeling the walls were listening, and if they were anything like the gossiping townsfolk, they would tear the very fabric of reality apart rather than hear us utter the words “black apple.”

Phoebi’s hazel eyes were comically round, and I could see her mouth moving in slow motion, likely forming the same expression of shock and fright that mirrored my own. It was almost too perfect—a snapshot of horror straight out of a ghastly act, rendered in the shadows of doom.

Sooner or later, someone would come around the corner of this alley, and we needed to vanish before we were labeled as troublemakers in what could only be described as the world’s most hellish art gallery. The tension hung heavy in the air, and I could practically feel danger creeping up behind us.

“We should get out of here,” I suggested, squirming like a fish caught on a hook, trying to shake off that unnerving sensation. My Monday luck had a way of finding me when I least expected it.

“No, we should take it,” Phoebi countered, her eyes gleaming with mischief that only someone with a few screws loose could possess.

For a split second, I wondered if this was some sick joke, but the smirk plastered on her pink lips said otherwise. Clearly, she had missed a few history lessons or, worse, harbored a death wish.

“I would ask if you have brains, but I’m not sure you even know what those are. Are you nuts?!” I quipped, struggling to keep my voice low as my patience wore thin like a threadbare shirt.

Adventure called to me like a siren’s song, but the imminent risk of life imprisonment? Not so much. Not to mention the punishment that would follow—a delightful combo of torture and an eternity in a hell that made a quarry look like a tropical resort. Nope, that weight was one I couldn’t carry, not even on my best days.

“I’m getting out of here,” I blurted out, only to realize my luck had already caught up with me.

Just as I turned to leave, Mr. Tom, my neighbor and part-time cosmic witch, strolled into view, holding an enormous black bag as if it were a feather. His intentions were as clear as day—trash.