Aglamos: The Apocalypse

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            Fire. Flames, all around, swallowing the world. Trees, houses, bushes, flowers, animals, people. All turned to ashes in a matter of moments.

            Screaming. Running. People grabbing their children and trying to save them, running towards what looks like a town square, with a circle made of smaller, stone circles, disappearing into a thick mist coming from their centers.

            Frozen, I stand in the middle of it all, inhaling the smoke and feeling the trembling of the ground underneath my feet. Trying to move is useless, my limbs don't listen to me. Trying to scream to warn people closest to me is just as useless, as my voice is not coming out.

            The Sun itself is a dark red colour, getting darker every second, and as it loses its shine, the catastrophe underneath it gets worse. And it keeps getting worse until all that it is left is a broken, burned and deserted world.

            There's a loud sound of something breaking somewhere around me, which cuts through the mist in my brain and snaps me out of the dream. Slowly, as feeling returns to my body, I realize I had fallen asleep in class, bent over the desk with my head on my folded arms. My legs are tingling, pins and needles shooting up and down their length, sweat clings to the back of my neck and pools in the dip of my lower back.

           Someone yells out a curse, and I manage to pry my eyes open. Raising my head, I see through bleared sight our professor bent over in the front of the room, picking up broken pieces of a mug.

           Blinking, I turn to my left, where Diego sits – or lies – on his chair, slumped down so far his chin reaches the edge of the desk, eyes glued forward to his phone, which plays some anime show I haven't seen yet. ''How long was I out?''

            ''About half an hour. You didn't miss anything, this was such garbage even Hope gave up hope on it,'' he laughs, at his own words no doubt, shaking his head before going back to his show.

           Letting out a deep sigh, I look over at Hope, who is casually leaned back in her chair, notebook on her lap and one earphone in her ear. It is a rare sight to see, considering Hope actually loves Modern Literature, so to see her so disinterested makes me feel better about falling asleep in class.

           To my right, Zaya is actually paying attention, notes scribbled in her notebook, some words highlighted in light pink. She's the only one out of the four of us who cares enough about this class, and it's a good thing. Were it not for her, we would have mostly flunked the class last year.

            Sensing me staring at her, Zaya turns her head slowly, scrunching one eyebrow in concern. ''All right?'' she asks quietly.

            I only hum in confirmation, and she sneaks her hand into mine underneath the table, gently running her thumb over my skin. I know she can tell I've had the dream again, but it's neither time nor place to talk about it. I lay my head on her shoulder and blankly stare at the front of the classroom, not hearing a word Mrs. Howell says as she continues the lesson.

           My dream comes back to me, playing out in my head like scenes from a movie. It always does, and it's draining. For months now, every time I would close my eyes, the same scenes would play out. Sometimes, I would see some people in better focus, like they were in high definition while everyone else was blurred. Some nights it would be a red-headed girl with four arms, dressed in a black leather jacket, eyes full of pain but empty at the same time. Other nights, it would be a young boy, at most fifteen years old, staring at me with the bluest, clearest eyes I have ever seen, and it always feels like he can look right into my soul.