Camp Regal

Red Rose

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The dream.  Thunder crackles inside of the argentine clouds, and the sky is pale.  Below the hollow sky is me — in a field of dull grass that seems to go on forever.  Something is writhing in the grass, awkwardly.  I look around at this quaint world, then look down.  I'm wearing my white Aeropostale shirt and blue jeans.  It's so quiet that the sound of grass moving is blaring across the sky.

The feeling of being alone in whatever dimension I'm in is heavy in my throat, it stops me from moving.  The sound of grass being crushed under the spasmodic creature grows louder.  A light scruple burns my heart as it gets louder, and louder, until it starts to reverberate in my ear drums and I have to cover them.  I take a simple two steps forward, and peer over the small crevice in the grass.  It is a bird with brown feathers, but there's something wrong with it.  I gasp and recoil like I've seen a ghost.

To my abhorrence, the bird has a broken wing.

My hazel eyes flutter open and a gasp escapes my lips.  I just stare at my porcelain ceiling.  This is the tenth time I've had that dream.  What's wrong with me?  I've debated with my teacher after class about what it means several times.

I flash back to my classroom.

"The bird was still alive when I found it, but.." My voice trails off.
"But what, Clyde?"  A heavy set man replied.  He sported a blue button up that looked small on his build, and grey slacks that sat atop his hush puppies.  His eyes were a dark blue and a scruffy beard complimented his face.
"It had this broken wing."  I finally muttered, then raised my voice a bit.  "It's weird because I've been having that same dream all year.  Never before."  I cross my arms and walk to the window of the classroom.  It could be because this is my last year of Highschool.  My brown orbs stare at my reflection.  I'm wearing the same thing I had on in the dream, but with my dark leather jacket lacing the shirt.  Then, my attention is averted past my reflection.  We're at the third floor and I can see a birds eye view of Idalia.  I look at the strips of grunge housing and realize our city isn't much to look at.  With most of the grass dead, and not a lot of money for architecture, most of the ground was the same color as the earth.

"Well for starters the bird isn't alive."  Mr.Jackson sat at the corner of his maple desk, an inch away from a portrait of him and his family.  I raise an inked brow, then he explains.
"A bird that can't fly isn't really living at all."

With that, I break away from the flashback.

I'm back in my room.  I think about what he said while staring at my ceiling.  Is that bird me?  Is that the way I feel in this broken down city?

Helpless, and stuck?

I prop myself up on an elbow and wipe the remnants of sleep from my eyes.  "AND BACK TO CHANNEL 7 NEWS."  My TV blares from the nightstand and catches my attention.  A large building fills the screen, the words "HOLLOW CORPS" emblazoned across the middle.  I stare at the tall, azure colored building.  I've always wondered what it would be like to work there. 

As soon as we were old enough to crawl we were taught about the Hollow Corps.  About how they found the very essence of life in these supernatural gems.  There are four of them, one for each necessity of the planet.