She moved with caution, wrapped in a deep purple cloak, her grip on a knife stained with old blood. The blood didn't drip—it had soaked into the blade, as if time itself had failed to wash it clean.
The knife neared my right hand—and I fought to wake. My heart pounded like a war.
But… something was leaking. Was I going insane, or was reality slipping out of my control again?
My breath caught. I raised my hand—blood. It trickled down my wrist; the surrounding skin burned, as if I'd touched an old flame that hadn't forgotten how to hurt.
The smell—sharp, metallic—like rust that refuses to fade.
It didn't feel like a nightmare. It hurt too much to be just a dream.
How could something that happened only in my mind leave a wound on my skin?
A quiet cry escaped not only because of the blood, but also because I'd seen this before.
It wasn't just in my head. It was happening again.
I touched the cut. Real. My heart clenched.
If my dreams are starting to wound me… What happens when I dream of death?
What if I don't wake up in time?
What if my body can no longer distinguish between waking and sleep?
It wasn't the first time. But this time was worse. Maybe I hadn't dreamed. Maybe… I saw it.
The room tilted. My knees trembled. Dizziness crept in—fear beside it—as if reality had warped.
I should tell someone. But who can I trust completely?
I got out of bed on shaking legs and walked to the sink.
I washed the wound. The water ran deep red, almost black, like a memory leaking from my body.
The stinging didn't stop. It burrowed inward, pain trapped beneath the skin.
Everything grew still, as if my ears had closed, as if time paused for a breath.
The bedroom door opened—without a knock.
"What happened?" Dylan asked, his voice soft in a way that took others by surprise.
"I'm… not sure," I whispered. Nothing made sense.
He was already holding a first-aid kit—like he'd been waiting. His eyes didn't search for proof. He already knew.
Maybe he read me. He always does. Even when he helps, there's something I can't decipher. Does he know more than he lets on?
"It's happening again?" he asked, needing no explanation.
I wanted to thank him… But if I opened my mouth, the tears would come first.
Sierra burst in—leather jacket, smoke clinging to her.
Something wild in her—terrifying and somehow safe.
"Is everything okay?" Her tone was harsh, but worry slipped through.
Words failed.
Dylan filled her in with a glance—no words from me.
I didn't want explanations. I didn't like the questions. I tried to run from the blood, the dream, and the truth.
"When you get to school, talk to the principal!" Sierra called after me.
"Fine!" I didn't turn around.
A dull ache in my hand reminded me—this was real.
The sun had climbed higher. Light knifed through the trees—sharp, almost punishing—as if morning refused to let me hide.
In the stone corridor to the school, Oliver and I arrived at the same time.
I walked in silence, thoughts crowding. I stopped by a wide stone window, staring at the gray sky to prove I was still here.
"Oh, come on," he muttered. "Is the world too small, or are you following me?"
"I don't know what I did to you, but you're not talking to me like that again."
He smirked. "What are you, a grandma? You sound like a cursed amulet."
"Honestly? You're not that far off."
He crossed into my space.
"He's six hundred and fifty-four," he whispered.
"And how old are you?"
"Wow. So you're three hundred and seventy-five years older than I am." I smiled. "Want a wheelchair—or should I take that as an insult?"
For a moment, his expression cracked. He looked like he might say something… Then the cold returned. His gaze lingered too long. He recognized something he shouldn't.
"And remember—I'm still your teacher," he muttered.
He knew. And that burned worse than the cut. He knew me—and knew I wasn't someone who asked for help.
So why choose to hurt me?
Maybe… he's afraid too, not just of me, of himself.
I wanted to yell. To kick. To vanish.
I swallowed the words.
Only when the door shut behind me did I realize I was already in the classroom.
My heart still pounded. I didn't know if it was from the wound… or the words I didn't dare say.
And maybe, deep down, I feared what I was starting to feel.
Something for him. Something I didn't want.
I sat between Jace and Linnea. A hand touched my shoulder. I turned—Jace.
"I didn't know you were mad at me," he said in a low voice.
"Sorry… I just fought with a teacher. I didn't realize I took it out on you."
"What happened to your hand?"
"I tried cooking and cut myself." Better he thinks I'm clumsy than says nothing. His gaze lingered.
"Are you okay?" His voice was gentle.
I nodded, and shame bloomed.
He sat too close. His eyes made it hard to breathe.
His hand almost touched mine—then paused.
Inside me… everything burned.
Was I drawn to him? Or just desperate for someone to see me?
When he's silent, it hurts more than words—like he knows exactly where to touch without speaking.
We walked the stone hall together. My hand trembled. My heart raced—not from the wound, but from feeling.
Beside him, my breathing calmed.
But my heart ran wild.
If I don't want him to see me broken, why does it matter so much that he stays?
And if he disappears, what do I have left?
"What's up?" Linnea's voice came from behind.
"Who'd you get?" I asked.
"Quaj."
"He's sixteen, right?"
"Yeah, they moved him up."
"What are you working on?"
"We haven't decided yet."
"We're focusing on boxing and books."
"If it helps—pick something that matters to you."
"Thanks." She smiled.
But something in her voice wasn't right. Too low, as if it hadn't passed through her throat. Soft—but metallic. Almost lifeless.
And her scent had changed—like a flower gone rotten.
Her voice sounded like it came from underwater.
A shiver ran through me.
She smiled—but her eyes stayed cold.
I noticed a blue mark on her skin—or I imagined it.
I wanted to ask… But something in me pulled back.
Not just strange—wrong.
A sense of otherness. Like looking at your best friend's reflection—and not recognizing her.
I opened my mouth—the bell split the moment.
"Can I come over?" I asked Linnea.
"Yeah, of course. Why?"
"Pajama party."
She smiled. "What, you need a reason to visit?"
But again, the smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Okay." I smiled back. "I'll come by after, Jace. Text me the address."
"Talk later!" I called and ran.
To class with Oliver. Or, as I like to call it—weekly torment.
Reserved for sinners. Or survivors.
And maybe this kind of death is precisely what could save me from the rest of my nightmares.
Something beyond time… had already started to move.