I don't remember passing out, but I was dreaming at this moment. Though, I could see everything from a different perspective, not in the first person. I've dreamt like this before, when I watched the faceless boy kill the much bigger bully.
This time, I ended up inside a forest—a thick one.
The sun shone through the thick clusters of leaves hanging from the trees, casting its radiant and warm light onto the grass below. The air smelled of colorful flowers, hummed with the buzzing of bees, and felt very pleasant to drift through. I caught sight of something—or someone, at the edge of the forest, just by a massive rock that overlooked a large clearing.
On the far end of the clearing was the other side of the forest, decorated with tall evergreen trees. The figure was a boy, about five or six years of age. He was clad in a wool shirt, a pair of overalls, and a hat to shield himself from the blistering heat. Through the ambiance of the forest, I could hear small, quiet noises emanating from his spot.
I walked over, the leaves and grass making no sounds under my feet. The sun didn't touch my skin, but I still felt warm. I couldn't feel the wind, but I could see it subtly shifting the grass under my feet. I wasn't walking over—I was almost floating, the soles of my feet mere millimeters above the ground. The boy was bent over on his knees, his pants stained with dirt and grime from the ground.
In his small, calloused palms lay a cardinal—bloodied and lifeless. The animal's crimson blood was leaking out slowly, dripping in between the boy's fingertips and staining the grass below with its red, almost infectious hue. The last time I had a dream such as this, the boy was crying about what he had done. I couldn't see his face, for his hat obscured much of his hair and head. His hair, matted and oily, shone in the sun.
The cardinal's blood ran down his forearms, barely meeting the section where his rolled-up sleeves would grace his pale, bruised skin. His trembling hands suddenly dropped the cardinal to the ground upon hearing a noise behind him. I too turned around just as he did, facing myself with a familiar figure—the boy's father.
"What the hell did you do?" he growled, the man's gaze immediately fixating on the dead animal discarded on the grass.
"I played with it," the small boy responded.
Hearing this response, his fathers brows furrowed, and his calloused knuckles, worn and abused from hours of hard labor, clenched into fists so pale they seemed to lack any blood. I turned back to the boy, my own eyes widening upon seeing his face. His contours and facial features were a roadmap of scars and bruises, each telling their own gruesome story.
"You cursed it." His voice was bitter, cold, and unempathetic.
The man's round, brown eyes narrowed to horizontal slits, with only a sliver of the pupils showing through. With what anyone could attempt to see within them, only rage and unkempt emotions dared to protrude. The scrawny boy scrambled to his feet, stepping back as he picked up the dead bird. He held the animal close to his heart, as if the sound of his own heartbeat would breathe life back into the cardinal.
"You damn done cursed it, just as you did to our land!"
With steps that imitated strides, the father approached his son and snatched the bird from his small and feeble hands. With a simple yet intimidating swing of his arms, he hurled the creature out into the clearing, landing indifferent among the tall, overgrown shrubbery and untended foliage.
The boy didn't dare to speak, mouth agape and eyes fixed on his own father. The man with a muscular build glared down at his own son, his fists still clenched even after hurling the bird. His attention immediately pulled to the blood on his hands—deep and dark, a silent story of the incident. He looked back at the own blood that had gathered on his own hands from holding the corpse of the cardinal.
"You soiled me, you damn rat."
The small boy stumbled back, almost tripping on a log underneath him. "I-I didn't mean to!"
He didn't want to hear any of it. A quick, malevolent slap made its way to the boy's cheek, painting the skin a deep crimson in the shape of a hand. The boy let out a sharp cry and fell backwards, landing on a tree stub. The impact caused him to cry out as the back of his shirt was torn, the jagged and rutted edges of the wood lacerating his skin.
"Your blood and murders have cursed this land, child!"
...
I shot awake with a heavy gasp, my hands beelining to my chest to stifle the erratic beating of my heart. I was back in my apartment room, which was dimly lit with nothing but a candle in the corner. I nearly yelped upon seeing Mr. Ryujin sitting on the bed beside mine, his expression calm and subtle, yet inscrutably analyzing.
"Another dream?" He asked, folding his hands across his lap.
I took a few moments to entirely calm down. The current pit in my stomach was akin to a black hole in nature—ravenous and lustful to consume everything it encountered. The black-haired man with dragon horns and a tail leaned back on the bed, resting his arms on the end-posts.
"Y-yeah ...it was ...s-something alright."
My response made Mr. Ryujin furrow his brow. He suddenly stood up and approached a desk in the room, opening a drawer and taking out two small and circular containers. Upon closer inspection, I recognized them to be containers used to store ink within them, ink for writing letters or memoirs.
Mr. Ryujin turned back to me, smiling softly as he opened them both in unison. As I slowly stood up from the bed and gradually regained my equilibrium, I walked over and gazed at both of the inks. One of them was black in color, almost viscous-looking. It was so black in fact, that I could see my own reflection, weary and tired, looking back at me.
The other was a light red color, appearing somewhat thin in consistency. Mr. Ryujin picked up both ink-containers and began speaking.
"I wanted you to journal your own thoughts and desires, so I gave you these two inks to help you along the way."
He pointed to the container of black ink, smiling. "The black ink is for thoughts that are peaceful and calming, thoughts that would make you smile. It could also be experiences or simply a daily jot."
The air around me seemed to grow colder as Mr. Ryujin gestured towards the red ink. "The red ink is for thoughts you don't like—thoughts you don't want—and thoughts that appear out of the blue."
He paused for a short moment, his breath drawing taut. "I've reread your journal, alongside every entry of Silas, and I've taken note of the contents within them. Every sentence featuring him is in red. Therefore, whenever you think of Silas or want to talk to him ...as you seem to like doing in your letters ...write in red."
At this moment, he smiled softly and set down both of the ink-containers, before placing both hands on my shoulders.
"Think of Silas as an individual who can only read in red writing. Whatever you write in red is like speaking his language."
"A-alright..." I looked at my journal, which was sitting on the desk in between both of the ink-containers. A strange inclination suddenly coursed through my body as I approached the desk, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
"O-ok...what to write now..."
"You don't have to write all the time, only when your mind and body know you should," Mr. Ryujin said, leaning against the bed.
At this moment, I looked back at him and smiled softly. "I think you should leave; there actually is something I want to write."
...
After Mr. Ryujin departed from the room, I turned back to the spiral-bound notebook, letting out a low sigh as I moved to open it. The moment I caught sight of the newest page, my eyes widened and my heart dropped slightly.
It was writing, writing in crimson blood. Looking down at my own wrists, I noticed there were no lacerations. How could I have written in my own blood if I had no blood to shed? Did the Apocalypse pathway possess an ability dedicated to healing wounds? Is some kind of blood magic relevant to this pathway, something the Umbridge didn't initially mention?
I shook my head, dislodging the persistent thoughts, and began to read the newest cryptic entry.
"May 3rd, 1592.
"I remember the forest, open and freezing in the cold. I saw the man and the deer grazing and playing, only for them to collapse and shrivel moments later. I remember crying and weeping for them, but I don't know why. I didn't kill them; I simply observed their passing with my own two eyes. My eyes are barren and bloodshot, run-down from countless nights awake and countless hunts that lay no fruits."
Reading that small, scrawled entry, I couldn't contain the unease in my gut. When I turned the page, there was no more writing to be seen. It was at this instant when a thought crossed my mind.
Wouldn't Mr. Ryujin have seen me writing? After all, he did watch me slumber for a period of time. Or ...what if Shinso was present, saw me writing at some point in time, got concerned, and went to tell Mr. Ryujin about such an anomaly?
All I knew was that this entry was written possibly hours ago, on this very day. This part of me writes when I sleep, it writes when I don't see it, it writes when I don't want it to. How could I write as Mr. Ryujin expects me to if this part of me only surfaces when I don't know it does? I can't write in red ink if the thoughts are mine and not ... "mine."
At this moment, an idea flashed in my mind.
What if I write to myself, how would they respond?
I began to write.
"You're a ...part of me, I guess ...I'd like to know why you're named Silas though."
"I wrote to you as if I knew you in the past, you're my imaginary friend after all. I told you about my murder plot—everything about it. Now, I'd like to hear your response."