Beyond The Sea Blue Light

When Worlds Collide What's Left Inside

Of course I dream. When I open my eyes, I'm in a living room of a house I don't recognize. Humidity hangs heavily in the air. The fans going at full power do nothing to cut back on the smothering heat. The house is dimly lit, the dark wood paneling seemingly sucking the life out of the room. I glance around, the room slowly solidifying around me. A large dining room table appears to my left, the smoky figure of a boy forming at the end.

Young Andy sits in his chair, flipping through a comic of some sort. He seems much younger, maybe around twelve years old. There's a blue crayon clutched in his right hand as he scans the pages. Behind him, the TV is blasting, some news reporter ranting on and on. Andy pays no heed to it, solely focusing on his book.

"What do you think you're doing?" I spin around, terrified I've been caught. But the man who enters the room brushes past me, going straight toward Andy who shrinks back. I don't get a good glimpse of his face, but I'm certain I've seen him before. He pulls the comic book from Andy's hands, tossing it to the ground. "I told you that you needed to learn about the national emergency."

"There isn't one," Andy protests.

The man scowls at his answer. "The freaks," he spits. "Are dangerous. They're slowly taking our world apart from the inside, ready to cause mass panic. It's only a matter of time before they take over the country. They've already been starting riots, causing unrest."

"But they are too small to be the ones doing it," Andy protests. "That's what my teachers said. There aren't enough of them."

"They have abilities," his father breaths. "They aren't human, no matter what they claim. Have you seen the protests? The smashed windows?" He points a finger to the TV. "If you had been paying attention, you would realize that."

"But my teachers say that—"

"I don't care what your teachers say," the man hisses. "They are mistaken. These terrorists want all of us dead. We need to stop them, lock them up, keep them away before it's too late. So they don't take you away from me like they killed your mother. You didn't forget how she died, did you?"

Andy looks down, his lip trembling. "No," he whispers.

The man nods, taking in a breath. "I need to make sure you are safe," he says. "They could attack at any moment. Everyone fails to realize just how dangerous they are, until it's too late." He seems to mistake Andy's anger for fear. "Andy, listen to me, okay? I'm going to make sure they don't hurt you, like they've hurt so many people."

Andy nods, his eyes glistening. I don't fail to notice how his fists are clenched around the blue crayon, shaking with glowing energy.

The scene changes and I see Andy's father, sitting with his head in his hands, a photograph of Andy on the table. The TV is blasting images of the Attack, the one that I've witnessed far too often in memories laced with fears. The catalyst that set off the Facilities, the one that started this whole fight.

"Why?" Andy's father sobs. "Why did they have to take you too?" I watch him in silence, seeing his shoulders shaking as he struggles to collect himself.

"I'm going to make this right," he whispers into the dark dining room. "Andy, I promise. I'm going to make sure that no one else dies."

As he looks up, my heart seems to stop in my chest. My mind whirls, shock and confusion thundering through me. That doesn't make sense. How come they both thought he died? He's alive—I know that because I saw him yesterday.

Because the person that Mr. Styles and Ronnie are both grieving for is Andy.