Something moved deep within me. Inside my chest. It was a feeling, a really uncomfortable feeling. It was fluid-like, swimming around my heart, until it clenched it tightly, causing my breathing to spike off rhythm.
The darkness faded into the warm, golden sunlight that streamed through my open room window as my eyes snapped open immediately. I squinted them; the sunlight was almost blinding.
In a quick, successive motion, I sat up on my bed, taking off the warm, silky bed sheets that clung to my sweaty body.
My chest rose and fell as I took in large, desperate breaths. Goosebumps were present on my skin; they sprouted everywhere, and the thick beads of sweat that trailed from my forehead down to my bare chest touched every one of them.
In an attempt to calm my wildly beating heart, I slowed the rate of my breathing, inhaling deeply, and exhaling.
I shut my eyes, pressing the thumb and index finger of my right hand tightly against my eyelids. Then slowly, I moved them up, massaging my forehead to calm that harrowing ache that banged against my skull.
Once I gathered myself, I let out a soft, slightly agitated sigh.
That dream again. Why.. why do I still dream of that day? It's been two years.
I stood up from my bed, calmly shaking my head to get rid of the bleak thoughts that festered at the edges of my mind.
I opened my eyes.
A cold feeling resonated deep within my bones, echoing and traveling until it reached and ultimately chilled my already calm heart.
But the chill wasn't still or calmness, nor was it peace of mind. Instead, the chill was something that haunted me every single day. The chill was something that never let me sleep peacefully; it even manifested in my dreams.
The chill was guilt.
Yes, guilt. Not because I did something wrong; I never felt guilty when I did something wrong, most possibly because I did them for the right reasons. And by right reasons, I mean reasons that I felt were right.
This guilt was, in fact, because of something that I didn't do.
Saving Li-Song.
On that day, two years ago, he died.
That man wasn't a bad person. At least I didn't perceive him as one. In fact, he was the only one who had ever talked to me in the pipelines.
The others avoided me because they felt like the overseers favored me more — and they probably did — judging from the fact that I was always on hammering duty.
It was an utterly petty reason to avoid social interactions with a person, not that I cared much about it, though.
But much to my surprise, the old man was the only one who saw through the displeasing senselessness of their pettiness.
He spoke with me. But if I'm being honest, with the questions he always asked, it was more like I was being interviewed.
But still, it was the only reason I ever gave him a listening ear in the first place.
I didn't even know who he was or where he came from. Why he worked in the pipelines, or why he spoke to me.
And that was the sad part. The old man never talked about anything else. Nothing private or personal enough to build any kind of bond.
Instead, he always talked about the world, giving me lessons about a history that probably every human on Earth knew. And then he asked me those uncomfortable questions. It was like he was probing me, interviewing me.
I didn't know how or why I wasn't shot that day, because I was also slacking. But, if I were to guess, I'd say I survived because of my… Instinct. I think that's the word for it.
I can't remember most of what happened that day because I was unconscious. But when I woke up, I was soaked with red blood from head to toe, sitting at the front door of old man Craffold's house.
I had no idea what had happened or what had caused it to happen. But there was one thing I was sure of, and that was the fact that the dried up red blood that clinged to my skin and my clothes…
They weren't mine.
After that day, I heard that the entire Orned gang — the spiffian gang that controlled the pipelines and was regarded as one of the four major gangs in the backlands — had been completely wiped out by a faceless, blood-stained male human whom the people of the backlands eventually dubbed:
The Red Nightmare.
It really wasn't that hard to connect the dots. Really, if I hadn't realized it sooner, then I'd probably be a bigger fool than I already am.
I was the red nightmare in those stories. And for whatever reason, after I became unconscious, I went on a rampage.
But I still couldn't save Li-Song.
Or is he really dead?
I was not sure because I had searched for his body amongst the pile of dozens of screwer corpses. I searched for hours and hours, but still, I never saw his corpse.
He might still be alive. After all, I knew nothing about the man.
But then again, it's highly unlikely. He was shot. And before he was shot, his hand touched my forehead, making me fall unconscious.
Once again, I let out a soft sigh.
I wonder why his face always turns to… light in my dreams.
In reality, two years ago, nothing as mystical as that happened. His face was normal. But there was a faint, sad smile plastered on his dry lips, as if he knew what was about to happen. As if he knew that his death was imminent.
And that final feeling before I went unconscious…
"Was the old man a sparrow?" My voice scratched against my throat as it came out. It was raw, cracked and unfiltered, the way every human's voice was when they woke up.
I quickly dismissed the thought of him being a sparrow. Even if he was…
No, it was highly unlikely. A sparrow wouldn't even work underground in the pipelines. Here in the backlands, they would probably be in one of the four major gangs. And a sparrow of that old man's age would be an elder in the gang.
"That's enough pondering," I whispered to myself. I had to find a way to beg for breakfast from old man Craffold.
Although I doubt he would happily entertain the thought of feeding me again for the hundredth time.
But I had already found my way into the old man's heart. I just had to ignore his ramblings about the rent and convince him that I'd find a job, which was false, because I'd never be able to get a job.
I had tried.
My gaze flickered, scanning the entire room.
The room wasn't wide, it wasn't large or extravagant either. It was extremely small to say the least. It was unpainted, having just enough space to contain my beloved bed that had become my best friend these days, a small wooden wardrobe that housed my three clothes that I rotated on a day-to-day basis, and..
That was pretty much it. But honestly, small as it was, it was still better than anywhere I had ever 'lived' in the past, which were not really 'houses.' I never had one, just places I slept at night, which were mostly park areas where no one visited at night.
That was exactly why I was always very grateful to old man Craffold. He took me in on the day I woke up in front of his house. He cleaned me, fed me, and gave me a room in his block house. The only thing he ever asked of me in return was rent money for the room I occupied. And I knew he was always joking about that… maybe.
He must have been. I mean, he knew that I had no job.
Honestly, I never even knew why he was so kind to me. But…
You know what? I'll ask him why today. And then I'll give him a warm, heartfelt thank you as it's the only thing I can offer right now.
I want to appreciate this one good person remaining in my life, while I still can. I won't let another 'Li-Song case' repeat itself.
The moment I made up my mind, I took a long stride toward my wardrobe, donning my long, black coat, and a long grey undershirt that flowed over the zip area of my black baggy pants.
A small smile tugged at the corners my lips as I put the clothes on. It was because the clothes reminded me of my friend, one whom I had known since we were both eight years old, Mangé. He was the one who gave me these clothes.
After putting the clothes on, I walked toward my door.
"Well, let's go greet him."
The words hung in the air as I uttered them. They distorted strangely, bled even.
What the hell?
My hand remained frozen on the iron door handle. I looked down at the handle, and it — my hand inclusive — seemed to contort, its ever-changing size warping strangely in my vision.
My head became woozy, and my mind felt like it was floating as I raised my gaze, sweeping it across the sight of my cramped room.
Everything warped and distorted in my vision.
"W–what?"
Then, a brain-tearing pain streamed through my mind.
—Arggggghhhhh!!!—