Akumi: Redemption

The Silver Tongue and the Healing Touch

James found himself trudging through a dark, foreboding forest, his hands buried deep in his pockets. The atmosphere was thick with sorrow and dread, the air heavy with a sense of loss. Tall, gnarled trees loomed over him, their twisted branches adorned with shadowy figures hanging limply, hands and feet bound by ropes. Ghostly wails filled the air, drifting through the trees like a mournful wind, echoing the despair of the lost souls trapped there. The forest was as dark as a crow's wing, though the sun should have been high in the midday sky.

But James moved with a quiet, contemplative heaviness, unshaken by the eerie setting, even as the apparitions whispered his name in hollow, echoing voices. He walked aimlessly, his eyes distant, as if lost in a sorrowful memory, not headed anywhere in particular, just moving through the bleak landscape.

As he ventured deeper, the figures hanging from the trees became clearer-men and women like him, African American, their faces twisted in agony. He felt a pang of familiarity but didn't flinch; the scene was haunting, but not enough to stir real fear in him.

A sudden rustle broke the stillness. From the dense shadows, pale, gaunt figures emerged-the Nite Folk, with painted faces and hollow eyes, their movements quick and jagged like twisted marionettes. James pulled his hands from his pockets, his expression hardening. With a resigned sigh, he drew his dual revolvers, each shot piercing the oppressive silence. The blasts echoed through the forest, tearing through the nightmarish figures one by one.

But the Nite Folk kept coming, crawling out from the dark like specters of the swamp, their numbers endless. James switched to his semi-automatic shotgun, unleashing a thunderous barrage that shredded the advancing horde. Each pull of the trigger was an act of defiance, each shot a reminder of the fight that still burned inside him. Yet for every one he cut down, more swarmed from the shadows, overwhelming him in a relentless tide.

He fought bravely, methodically, with the skill of a man who had faced death too many times to count. But the Nite Folk were relentless, and soon they were on him, grabbing at him from all sides, cold hands dragging him down. James struggled, firing until his guns ran empty, his defiance never wavering even as he was pulled under.

The swarm consumed him, dragging him into the suffocating darkness of the forest, their hollow eyes staring blankly into his.

And then he woke up, back in the Livingroom, breath ragged, drenched in sweat. It was just another nightmare, just another fight in the shadows-but fear? No. Just the weight of another battle lost in his mind.

"Are you feeling ok" said a voice outside his periphery "You where tossing and turning."

Looking toward the voice's origin, James spotted Liv, staring at him with great concern. Her delicate elven hands fidgeted, her shy eyes meeting his before darting away as if embarrassed to be caught looking.

"I'm fine, just had a bad dream is all," James said dismissively, his voice tinged with a country twang.

Liv bit her lip, clearly not believing him, but her timid nature kept her from pressing the issue. She shifted awkwardly on her feet, her fingers nervously brushing against each other. She wanted to say more, but it wasn't in her nature to push.

"Well... um, if you say so," she mumbled softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm makin' breakfast. We're havin' strawberry biscuit chicken sandwiches with hash browns and orange juice." She turned and headed to the kitchen, her petite hips swaying with each step. James couldn't help but let his eyes linger on her; the long purple shirt and thigh-high socks she wore left little to the imagination.

James's mouth watered at the thought. He'd had chicken before, plenty of strawberries too, and more biscuits than he could count, but never had he ever had all that stuffed into a sandwich. "That sounds mighty fine," he drawled, settling onto the couch.