I watch her long, blonde hair dance with the wind. Her glow is strange, almost not human. Then again, what do I know about people? I feel something prick my chest as the memories came rushing back. Memories of being locked for nine years because they thought I was crazy. Some thought I was a child born from a demon.
It started when I was able to remember my dreams. My nightmares. I'd often sketch them on our walls, on tissue papers, everywhere. My parents thought it was a good sign of me being a genius as a child. But my drawings grew darker, scarier, and it disturbed everyone around me. I had sketched the death of my grandfather, who died immediately the day after. I had drawn a raging fire devouring our city and it did.
It had caused an uproar. People talk about me. Whenever we walk on the streets, children run and their parents hide. Priests and pastors of different religion visit our house almost everyday. I was almost shot when I was eight.
Since then, I was never allowed to go out.
After nine years, the story of the young prophet was buried in his dreams. I was able to live again.
YOU ARE READING
Phantasmagoria
Short StoryI am not sure if I am the only one, but given my situation, I probably am. I am not sure if you felt the same way as I did. Hell, I am not even sure if any of you is real. If you are, please stay. I will tell you my story. And if, in any way possib...
