♡Sweetheart♡ ||Brendon Urie x Reader||

Chapter 8

It's been a while, hasn't it?

I'm so sorry! I disappeared for a bit, came back, then disappeared again. It was approaching the end of the semester so I had my hands full, and I had to emotionally recover from a few things.

I hope you aren't too upset.

I just had to update this book, so here it goes!

A woman on the ground, her hair splayed out around her, her face indecipherable. She was unmoving, eyes and lips slightly parted, her body lightly convulsing.

A man leaning over her, a strange object by his side, his complexion a blur. He had a hand gripping his hair, pulling it, his other over his face. The scene faded in and out but, at last minute, it seemed as though he was crying.

I had the urge to reach out for him, to comfort him, but I was not present in this scene. I seemed to be watching in third person. It was miserable watching him sob over her. Miserable watching as his hand seemed desperate to pull out his hair. Miserable how he cried, and cried, and wouldn't stop.

Without knowing what was going on; without being aware of the situation; without knowing these people in front of me, I knew he had done something terrible. I knew he loathed himself for it. I knew he felt guilty, stronger than any emotion I've ever witnessed.

And strangely, I knew he reshaped his entire personality due to this single event.

A dream was merely a dream. It was a figment of imagination. They were present simply to display the emotions one couldn't recognize themselves. They told their own stories, they helped others convey feelings.

I told myself this over and over the day I had dreamed of that man and woman. This Sunday I was experiencing. The day after Urie had joked around with me. The day after a lighthearted Saturday.

But I knew, this was no dream. I could feel my memory sealing, plugging a hole which once doomed me to confusion. I was relieved but frightened. This was a memory of mine? I had never recognized it, but by the way my thoughts seemed to align and alarm me of the familiarity of the happenings of that dream, it was certain the scene I had recalled in my sleep was not foreign to me.

I couldn't find the strength to pull myself out of bed. I could feel my heart in my wrists, I could hear it in my ears, I could almost smell my own fear, and that arose a quaking in my limbs. I tried to suppress my terror as quickly as it came; if someone as normal as I could seem to smell my own fear, someone as abnormal as Urie could too.

I could feel my head throbbing and felt as though my temples were swelling. The action of attempting to calm my own mind after receiving a memory that I never remembered making was exhausting to say the least. As I searched into the crevices of my own head, I pulled the memory out again and rewatched it in my head.

I was terrified at my recollection of the past. Typically thinking back on memories included simply remembering what had happened, occasionally partnered with a keen sense of a particular smell, taste, or sound. It was not often all senses could be retrieved from a scene in one's past.

But I saw the memory with a full experience, almost as if I was back when it happened. My mind seemed to leave my body with my eyes drooping, head slowly leaning to the side, and limbs relaxing as it focused entirely on the presentation I was mentally visioning.

Instead of viewing the scene in third person, I was on the floor paralyzed, in the same state as the long-haired woman on the floor. My mouth was agape, my eyes longed to close but refused to, and my entire body shook. It was not as though I was having a seizure, although it may have looked so, but I was fully conscious and the quaking in my limbs was not extreme to any extent. I couldn't seem to make out the faces of the two in front of me through my half closed, teary eyes, and my stiffness did not by any means prevent the scent of iron from reaching my nose, the solid ground from jabbing into my back uncomfortably, and the cold air from stroking wet my cheeks.