Savior

The Boy and the Dream

                  

It's twilight out, a heavy blanket of mist hovering just a few inches above the ground. I am not able to see my hand in front of my face, let alone the path in front of me.

There is not a sound to be heard, not a bird singing nor a cricket chirping, and the silence is eerie. My footsteps echo in the small space, my heavy breaths ringing in my ears. There is a panic in my chest that I cannot justify.

All I know is that I am in danger.

My pace quickens, hands reaching out blindly in front of me for fear of running into something, or worse, off of something.

No matter how fast I run or how far I go, the fog is endless, nothing changing or clearing. As if I am running in circles.

"Layla! Layla, where are you?!"

I halt at the voice, the familiar accent laced with fear and panic. It is coming from some distance away and I break off into a sprint as soon as he calls out to me again, my stomach churning and heart pounding.

Harry.

I run and I run and I run, but it seems as if I am going nowhere, his voice grows more frantic as he calls out for help and as his alarm grows, so does mine.

I am almost chocking with it by the time he calls out to me again, his voice just as far away as it was the first time, but it's what he calls me that has me slowing my speed.

"Scarlett, Scarlett! Help me, please! Help!"

My stomach drops for another reason entirely and almost on instinct, my eyes are trailing down my body, panic crawling up my throat at the sight.

Through the fog I can barely make out my fiery hair. Once chopped short, now back to its original length brushing my hips. I am in the same pair of jeans and the same white shirt I first came to London in, but something is different.

My shirt is stained with blood and my jeans are ripped at the knees, revealing the dark purple swelling of my flesh.

Harry's cries grow in frequency, but now, my feet seem to be glued to the cobblestone. I cannot move if I even wanted to.

I struggle to run towards him, to save him, to no avail.

All I can do is stand and listen to his screams... helpless.

His cries are suddenly cut short and in one short blink, the fog is lifted, revealing that I am back in my own apartment in England. But, it doesn't give me the blanket of safety I had hoped.

Instead, my panic grows when I feel arms slipping around my waist, the familiar scent of scotch and danger filling my nostrils. His breath tickles my neck as he squeezes me tight, much too tight. Looking down, I see the tattoos: the dagger, the rose... my name written in script across his wrist.

Scarlett.

"You thought you could run from me?" His lips graze my neck, arms squeezing me so tight I can hardly breathe, "I will always find you, Scarlett. Always."

It's a different pair of arms that stirs me from my nightmare.

I am screaming, cheeks stained with tears, and chest rising and falling in a panic so fierce I am afraid I may faint. His arms go from jostling me awake, to caressing me: my hair, my arms, my cheeks. But, I fight him away with every last ounce of strength within me. Still fighting Him.

The room is dark, but the light from the window has me making out the tattoos on his arms. The different tattoos... The cards, the heart, the cross...