He couldn't breathe.
That was the first thing. Not the cold. Not the silence. Just… no air. His chest was on fire. His lungs pulled and pulled, trying to get something, anything, but it was useless. There was this… weight. Pressing down on him from all sides. Like being at the bottom of a deep, deep lake, but worse. There was no water here. No air. No ground. Just… nothing. Just the black.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
His heart.
The sound was in his head. So loud. It was the only sound there was.
His chest hurt. Something was hitting his ribs from the inside. Hard. Over and over. It felt like it wanted out.
In all the crushing, empty black, it was the only thing that moved. The only thing that felt real.
So I'm still here? he thought. Alive? Maybe.
The panic crawled up his throat like icy fingers, fast and sharp. He knew this feeling. He knew it too well.
Not again… oh no, not again. Please, not this again.
And then came the whisper.
It wasn't a real sound. It didn't come from the darkness around him, and it didn't use his ears. It just… bloomed. Right inside his skull. The voice was broken, like something beautiful that had been cracked. And it was full of pain. Not a loud pain, like a scream. A scream was fast, over in a second. This was a quiet kind of hurt, an agony that felt like it would never, ever end. And it was calling his name.
"Kairen… help me…"
The words hit him. A sharp pain, right in his chest. Like a punch. He knew that voice. God, he knew it. It was more familiar than his own name. He had to see a face. A name. Anything.He had to find it. The face. The name.
He focused everything he had on that one empty spot in his mind, trying to force the memory to appear.
Come on, come on… think! Who is it?
He tried to grab it. The memory. The face. But there was nothing there to hold on to. It was like his hand just went right through smoke.
Nothing.
Just… fog. A thick, gray fog was in his head, and He knew the memory was there. Right there. But he couldn't see it.
There was just a gray fog in his head, hiding it. He tried to push the fog away. He pushed hard in his mind.
But nothing happened. The fog just stayed.
He pushed even harder. The fog just got thicker. It was no use.
Soon, the fog was all there was. Just gray. And then, nothing.
Just an empty feeling. Where a person used to be..
He had to scream. He had to make a sound, any sound. He opened his mouth, tried to suck in air that wasn't there, and just… pushed. A huge, silent scream that he felt tear his throat apart. But nothing came out. Not a whisper. Swallowed by the blackness.
And then—something moved.
The shadows twisted, pulling together like smoke turning into a body. The shape grew, a hulking monster of shadow, heavy and cruel. Its head bent low, and in that darkness two dim lights flickered to life.
Eyes.
They glowed faint red, like dying embers. They fixed on him without blinking. He felt his blood turn cold. The eyes were not angry. They were worse. Hungry.
The monster rushed, exploding forward like a storm of death. He saw it then. In its hand, the darkness bled into a giant axe, glowing faintly with a sick green light. The axe lifted high. The glow burned into his eyes.
It swung.
Time broke apart. In the flash of green light, he saw his mother's smile, tired but warm. He felt the silver chain his father gave him, cool against his skin. And then, a hollow weight of regret. He had not even begun.
The sound came, sharp and cruel, a horrible grinding, like metal clawing bone.
SCREECH! SCREECH! SCREECH!
His eyes snapped open.
The noise. It was still there. A loud, angry sound, right by his head.
And his heart. It was going so fast. Just hitting his ribs, over and over. Hard. It felt like it wanted out.
For a second, the room was gone. Just nothing.
Where am I? What is this place?
The questions screamed in his head, silent and terrified.
Is this real? Is it over?
Am I still in the dream? Is this real? Is it over?
No. Not the axe. It was real. His stupid alarm clock.
His hand felt so heavy. Like a rock. But he had to lift it. He had to make the noise stop.
He swung his arm. It felt slow, like he was moving through water.
His palm hit the small plastic box on his nightstand.
A loud smack. A click.
And the screeching was gone.
Just… silence.
Oh, thank god.
He didn't move. He just lay there.
And he listened to the silence.
It was the best sound in the world.
His chest still hurt, though. It was going up and down, too fast. He couldn't seem to catch his breath.
His ears were ringing, a high, thin sound, but the other noise… the horrible grinding sound from the dream… it was gone.
It's over, he thought, and thought a wave of relief. It's really over. I'm alive. This is my room. I'm safe.
But the shadows in the corner of his room… they looked too dark. He stared into them, his heart starting to pound again, and for a horrible second… he saw them. Two dull red dots. Faintly glowing. Staring right back at him.
His breath just… stopped.
His throat went tight. It felt like it was closing. He pressed his eyes closed, trying to block it out. Hard.
Then, he snapped them open again.
Gone. They were gone. Just shadows. It was just my mind, he told himself. It had to be.
He pushed himself up. The room tilted. Whoa. He had to put a hand down on the bed to steady himself.
Ugh. He felt… gross. His shirt was cold. And wet. It was stuck to his back and his chest. The sheets were a mess, all twisted up around his legs like snakes.
And he hurt. His whole body. A deep, sore feeling, right down in his muscles.
Like he'd been in a fight. A real one.
He needed something real. He planted his feet on the floor. The wood was cold. He could feel the grain, the little cracks under his feet. Okay. That's real. He pressed his hand flat against the wall. Rough plaster. Cool. Real. He closed his eyes and just listened. The old house was creaking. Outside… the faint rumble of a truck, far away. And a bird. It was starting to sing. A simple, normal bird. Real sounds.
His throat got tight.
But it wasn't fear. It was something else. Something heavy. He felt like he could cry, just from hearing a bird sing. Stupid. It's so stupid.
He sank onto the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. He tried to just breathe. In. Out. It was useless. The shaking wouldn't stop. It was a deep, rattling shake coming from inside his bones. The dream was still inside him. He pulled his hands away and just… looked at them. They were trembling so badly he couldn't keep them still. They looked so pale. So weak. Useless.
"Another one," he whispered, his voice thin and broken.
The dreams were getting worse. A year ago, the monster was just a shadow. Now it had an axe. Tonight, he had felt the air from its swing. What happens. What if it hits me this time?
The thought was a cold spike of fear in his gut.
What happens then?
The thought made his stomach tighten, icy and sharp. A sudden, tight twist of fear. Will I wake up? Or will I just… stop?
He shook his head, hard. Stop it. You're awake. You're safe. He started chanting the words in his mind, a desperate, broken mantra. Your name is Kairen. You live here, with your mother. Today is your first day… But the wall of words wouldn't hold. The shakes stayed.
He had to move. Just get up.
He pushed himself off the bed. His legs were shaking. Just… shaking. He tried to stand, but they wouldn't hold him. It felt like they weren't his anymore.
He took a step anyway, and his whole body lurched forward. He was falling.
No.
His hands flew out.
A loud smack as they hit something hard. His desk. A jolt of pain shot up both of his arms from the impact. But it stopped him. He wasn't falling anymore.
He just stayed there, leaning. All his weight was on his hands. On the books.
The only sound was his own breath.
It was loud.
Each breath was a quick, sharp gasp.
And it hurt his throat.
Dust puffed up. The smell… dry and old. Paper. He breathed it in deep. Okay, he thought. That's real.
He looked up. The old poster on the wall. Faded. Peeling at the corners. The Sky-Sailors. All of them were smiling. Swords out. Capes blowing. So strong. So brave.
They don't have nightmares, he thought. The idea was sharp and left a bad taste in his mouth. They don't wake up like this. Shaking so bad they can't stand.
They looked like his father. Or at least, the stories about him.
Not like them. Not heroes.
The thought was bitter.
Just a kid. A stupid kid.
Scared of what happens after he closes his eyes.
Scared of what's inside his own head.
He looked at the clock.
The red numbers blinked back at him. 6:00 AM. The sky outside was just a flat, hazy gray. The day was starting, ready or not. The thought didn't help. It just made the heavy feeling in his gut even worse.
But then it came.
The warmth.
That strange, familiar, prickling heat across his back, spreading out from his spine, right between his shoulders.
It always came after the nightmare.