The In Between

Chapter 2

"You're terrible." I didn't bother looking up at her snide comment.

"You passed the test, and all you do is read these filthy books."

Her words stopped me cold. "I don't just read filthy books. I work hard when I need to. And they aren't filthy—they have plots, love, everything my life is missing."

"Exactly," she snapped. "Your life is missing every romantic thing because of those books. Even your dreams are about them! Didn't you tell me you were in Sector 20 with a young Aaron Warner?"

I immediately regretted ever telling her about that dream. "Stop talking and focus on your own scores. I need to concentrate. Don't bother me."

She fell silent, but my mind wandered back to last night's dream. I'd met Aaron Warner, remembered every detail of his face, even though I'd never seen him before. Everything about it felt real, too real, like I hadn't dreamt it but lived it.

"I'm leaving early, Mary. See you tomorrow," I said abruptly, unable to focus anymore.

"Where are you going?" she called after me.

"You've already ruined my mood," I muttered under my breath. I had an hour before my next class, so I decided to head to the nearby coffee shop for some almond cake.

As I pushed open the door to leave, a horrible sight stopped me in my tracks. A man—tall and imposing—stood at the far end of the room, his back turned to me. At his feet lay a small figure, too still for comfort.

Suddenly, the man raised his belt and brought it down with a harsh snap against the floor. My heart pounded as I tried to move closer, to stop him, but my body wouldn't obey. It was as if I'd turned to stone, frozen in place.

The sound of the belt echoed through the room, relentless. Then, after what felt like an eternity, it stopped. The man left the room, slipping out silently, leaving only the small, broken figure behind.

I forced myself to move, my legs shaky as I knelt beside the body. A boy, no older than seven, lay motionless on the floor. His blond hair was matted, and his back was covered in marks. My stomach twisted in horror. I knew this boy. He was the same one from my dream—the same face, but now older, more battered, more lifeless.

"Kid!," I whispered, praying he was still alive.

His eyes fluttered open, and even though he was weak, his voice was harsh. "I don't know who you are. Get out of my room. Don't come back without my permission."

Hearing such cold words from a child was jarring, but I was relieved he could still speak.

"I'll get some ice and water for you," I said, my voice unsteady. It felt strange to be talking to him like this—to a child version of Aaron Warner.

I stood up and quickly scanned the room. It was a dark, luxurious bedroom, with rich, heavy furniture. I spotted a small fridge in the corner and pulled out some ice. As I returned and applied it to his wounds, I tried to break the tension. " I don't know my way around your room. Could you point me to the hidden ointment?"

He almost smiled, and the sight of it eased some of my own anxiety. "Second drawer to your left."

As I worked on his wounds, the silence between us felt heavy, almost suffocating. My hands trembled slightly as I applied the ointment, and before I could stop myself, the question I had been holding back slipped out.

"What's your full name?"

He went still, the tension in the air sharp enough to cut through. For a moment, I thought I had crossed a line. His eyes darkened, and then he spoke, his voice steady but filled with something I couldn't quite place. "You're in my room, treating my wounds, and you don't even know my full name?"

His words hung in the air, filled with suspicion, confusion—maybe even a hint of amusement. I wanted to respond, but the truth was, I didn't know how. How could I explain that I didn't know why I was here? That everything about this place, this moment, felt like a dream but real enough to make my heart race? How could I tell him that I had only met him in my dreams, that I was lost in a reality I didn't fully understand?