Beautiful Darkness

➵Rememberance of a Forgotten Past

I hate dreams.

Their predictability with contained pandemonium and turmoil has no restraint. Most of the time you are aware that this is all a façade produced by your mind, gathering all your hopes, dreams, and sadistic nightmares into one slideshow of temporary escape. You know that sooner or later you will be pulled into the disappointment of consciousness and any life you had in the reverie is destroyed into a million pieces; a mere fragment of your imagination.

You would think that knowing all this, knowing that any possible future or happiness it invokes is deception and mendacities, that you would not fall for its tempting illusion. You would believe that being aware that you're in such a state would prepare you for the cold slap of reality. Knowing all this concludes to absolutely nothing. Because you fall for its lure and enticement of what 'could be' and 'should have been'. And when you wake up, you are left with nothing but the feeling of complete and utter loneliness.

Yeah, I hate dreams.

That doesn't stop me from taking a bite of the forbidden fruit every single time- and immediately regretting it afterwards.

It has been a week since Graham and I's captivity. The only thing I can dream of or think about is her.

A sense of dread and guilt has irreversibly attached itself to me. I can't shake the feeling I had something to do with a concept so terrible that I can't even comprehend. Maybe it's the dreams, maybe I'm delusional.

They get worse each night. They started out innocent, her and I talking like she's here; like she understands everything inside of me. When my eyes opened a tear would escape, but my soul accepted the pain.

The dreams soon warped into nightmares. The field of dead bodies is around me as I continue to kill, completely unable to hold onto any shred of myself. I am completely feral, a new murderous strand of myself I didn't know existed. Race didn't exempt anyone from my path of destruction. Just even thinking of the realness of the dreams sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine.

How can I forgive myself for something that didn't happen?

A soft knock from the door draws me back to the present. We returned to the inn three days ago and I've locked myself up in my new room.

I stand on my unsteady legs and quietly shuffle to the door. I feel for the door and turn the knob to allow the door to open only a couple of inches. 

"Dinner is ready," I can tell it is Graham from his voice. His voice seems tight in a concerned manner. My vacant sight has still not returned. 

"I'm not hungry." I shortly respond and begin to shut the door. He puts his hand on it to keep it open.

"You need to eat," He begins and I don't bother answering him. "What's going on? You haven't left this room in days."

"I'm just tired." The excuse has worked on everyone else who has come knocking, even Orion.

"Bullshit," Graham's bold honesty is somewhat refreshing. I sigh deeply. I don't know what he wants from me.

"I'm not asking for you to open your heart, I know you won't. I just want to help." He grabs my chin. I take a step back.

"Thanks, but I'm fine, goodnight or whatever." I hastily reply. I shut the door without giving him a chance to reply.

I return to my bed of solace and close my eyes. I'm too captivated by the dreams to stop returning to them.

Seeing her instantly calms the anarchy in me.

"Hello, sister." Anessia's bright smile greets my dissembled presence. Her black hair seems to have grown longer than the last time I saw her. The brown and green in her eyes mold together in compassion yet I can sense and unvoiced tension.