Two Sided (OCTS Book 1)

Chapter 2- First Encounter

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

The voice of a young boy echoed through the crowded, monochrome black-and-white village. I couldn't see past the silhouettes of strangers crowding my vision, as if I were attending a rock concert in the middle of August. I was one of the shortest there, weirdly enough. It felt like I was five years old again. I shouted into the stampede, wanting to ask someone if they could explain what was going on— but it was like I was invisible. Nothing was getting through. The world was in slow motion, yet it felt like life was moving at ten times the speed.

I huffed out a breath of determination and decided that a young boy's life was more important than being polite. Shoving through the rampant crowd of black smears, it felt like I was going against a rapid river current. Each and every one was avoiding me as if I were the rock that threw everything off course, shoving against me and making ripples in the water that created loads of miniature tidal waves comparable to riptides for mosquitoes. Once the final pedestrian trudged by my shoulder, I was finally able to see the boy clearly.

"Please, you have to help me. They're coming!"

The boy looked uncannily familiar to me, somehow. I just couldn't put my finger on it because no distinguishing features could be made out. It looked like he belonged in some masterpiece by Vincent Van Gogh. He was as much of a black streak on a gray canvas as the rest of the faceless personas had been, yet I could tell he was horrified as if he lived inside of my own head like another consciousness. I jogged up to him and asked, only having a vague idea,

"How can I?"

"The rope!"

I nimbly leaped to his back, where his wrists were tied together with rope. I glanced at my own black and streaky hand expectantly, seeing the silhouette of a knife appear. I grabbed it and sliced the rope in one giant swipe, surprising the both of us. A noise that was somewhere between a grunt of satisfaction and a chuckle of surprise hummed through my lips as I smiled at the young boy. I don't think he could've been older than sixteen.

"There you go, buddy. You're free now."

"Would you mind helping me up?"

I grabbed his hand, and he regained perfect balance almost immediately. I felt proud of myself, to say the least, and relieved that he could escape. Except... he didn't.

I took a step back, allowing him to get going on his own so I could resume the rest of my sleep. He didn't move. I tried willing him to move, as I always could in my lucid dreams. Just as if he were anyone else, I expected him to do so at my bidding. He didn't, and instead stayed put facing in the opposite direction.

Well that's not creepy at all.

As I thought about leaving him there, he twisted his neck around in a three-sixty turn to face me, accompanied by an audible snap. The gray background suddenly lost all of its light. The paint streak that made up the boy's body became white, while two hollow eyes swirled about and decided to create holes for eyes in his face. That was the first time in this dream that I had seen anything with a remote resemblance to eyes. The white strokes that rendered his form began to pulsate at their ends, popping out of the page and becoming something of a flame. The figure took the initiative upon itself to act on its own. I tried, I tell you. I tried to make it disappear— but the more I did, the more time I wasted. The rest of its body turned to face me as it condescendingly grew roughly eight feet tall. It grumbled in the deepest, most distorted voice that could ever be spoken,

"Greetings, mortal."

The voice sent thunder cracks of sheer terror through my ribcage as I felt the vibrations radiate through the plane of which I stood. Faster than a blink, it formed into a crackling flame and dashed toward me, launching me into a wall that had appeared out of the black canvas... not out of my own will, but the deep pits of my own brain. I felt nothing, though I reacted as if I did. It was like I was actually there, despite knowing full well it was a dream. That's how it always was. I have always been numb to any pain dealt to me in the many dreams I've had throughout my life, ever since I was a child.