"The Past Is Not the Present"
Chapter 5: Renz's Suicide Plan
Author: Frenames
French had drifted off and entered his dream, but what unfolded before him was a vast, desolate battlefield-he had no idea where it was, only that the air reeked of iron and decay. Every direction he turned revealed piles of lifeless bodies: severed heads stared blankly with glassy eyes, headless torsos lay twisted in unnatural angles, and some of the forms scattered across the blood-stained ground had massive, tattered appendages that looked like wings. "What are these people-do they have bird lineage running through their veins?" French murmured to himself, his voice echoing faintly in the empty chaos around him.
"In my dream, there's a guy who's just as handsome as I am-maybe even a little bit, but not quite as much," he thought with a quiet smirk.
"I'm so ridiculously narcissistic, hahahaha!" he chuckled to himself, though the sound felt out of place against the grim scene.
This dream felt different from all the others he'd been having lately; where his previous visions were hazy and fragmented, this one was sharp and vivid, every detail crystal clear. As he stared at the man who bore his exact face-same jawline, same dark hair, same intense gaze-he could feel a heavy, suffocating pressure radiating from the stranger's body. The man's expression was completely flat, no flicker of emotion crossing his features-French couldn't begin to guess what he was thinking, but there was something in his stance that suggested he was crafted for one purpose alone: to kill.
The lookalike stood facing two opponents across a stretch of cracked, ash-covered earth. One was a towering man with eight massive, snow-white wings that spread wide behind him-his physique was muscular and imposing, and his face held a stern, noble set to it. He's handsome enough, French conceded, but I've got him beat in every way that matters.
Beside the winged man stood a woman who made French's breath catch in his throat-something about her felt deeply familiar, though he couldn't place where he might have seen her before. Her body moved with a fluid grace, every curve and contour perfectly balanced, and her skin gleamed like polished marble in the strange, grey light of the battlefield. She had long, silvery-white hair that flowed down her back like a river of moonlight, eyes the color of molten gold that seemed to see right through to his soul, and skin so fair and smooth it looked almost translucent.
"Ugh, I must be turning into a creep staring like this," he muttered, feeling his cheeks warm slightly. "Probably because I've never even held a woman's hand before, let alone been with one. But even so-my wife is way more beautiful than her. She's simple and kind, and I'll always stand by her, no matter what."
The dream shifted, and the fight began. French silently dubbed the woman "Miss Beautiful" and the man "Winged Man"-he figured the latter must be an angel, since angels were always described with wings in stories he'd heard. The lookalike moved with inhuman speed and precision, his sword cutting through the air in arcs that left trails of silver light. As minutes stretched on, it became clear the two opponents were struggling to keep up-their movements grew slower, their defenses more strained, while the lookalike remained calm and relentless. Of course he's strong, French thought firmly. I'd never accept it if my own mirror image was weak-that would be like slapping myself in the face.
Eventually, the winged man and Miss Beautiful fell to their knees, defeated and breathless. The lookalike stepped forward, and though French strained to hear what he was saying, the words came out as nothing but a low murmur carried away by the wind. In the next instant, the lookalike raised his sword high above his head and brought it down in one swift, decisive strike-and just like that, the dream shattered into darkness. Yet as French was pulled out of the vision, he felt an odd sense of recognition wash over him, as if he had been the one standing on that battlefield, he had been the one holding the sword. It was as if an invisible thread tied his very soul to that mysterious lookalike. It's just a dream, he told himself, shaking his head. It has to be-but why does this same scene keep playing out night after night?
"Maybe I really am that guy from the dream, hahaha!" he laughed weakly, trying to brush off the unsettling feeling. "That's impossible though-we're living in the modern world now, with cars and phones and electricity. I don't believe in ancient battles or people with wings or any of that fantasy stuff."
Just then, a cold gust of wind swept through the spacious bedroom, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and jasmine from the sprawling garden below. It hit her face sharply, jolting Elizabeth fully awake. She sat up abruptly in their large four-poster bed, her heart already beginning to race for no reason she could name. The room was bathed in soft silver light from the full moon streaming through tall floor-to-ceiling windows-her digital clock glowed 3:17 AM on the polished mahogany nightstand. Her eyes landed on the empty spot beside her where French, her husband whom she'd lovingly nicknamed Renz months ago, always slept. When she saw the rumpled silk sheets and hollow indent in the goose-down pillow where his head had been, her pulse hammered against her ribs so hard she could feel it thrumming in her ears. She didn't know why, but a deep, heavy sense of dread settled low in her stomach-Renz was gone.
Throwing off the thick velvet blanket that had slipped to her waist, Elizabeth scrambled out of bed and stumbled across the wide hardwood floor toward the source of the wind. To her left was their expansive wrap-around balcony, its glass sliding doors slightly ajar, heavy damask curtains billowing gently in the night breeze like dark waves. Through the gap, she could make out a dark figure standing at the marble railing, silhouetted against the warm glow of streetlights lining the quiet tree-lined avenue below. The ornate iron bars of the railing blocked her view of their face or what their hands were doing-whether they were gripping the edge tightly or hanging loosely at their sides.
Renz, her mind screamed. It has to be Renz. What in the world would he be doing out there at this hour-when the whole house was wrapped in sleep, save for the soft hum of the central air conditioning and the distant chirp of crickets from the garden? Then a terrifying thought crashed into her, so sharp and sudden it made her stomach twist with nausea: Maybe he's planning to jump. Maybe he was hurt by the things I said to him earlier today-when I let my frustration get the better of me and snapped about the family business struggling, about him shutting himself away in his study for weeks on end.
Her heart began to pound so wildly she thought it might burst through her chest. Without stopping to think, she lunged for the balcony doors, her bare feet catching on the edge of the plush area rug and sending her stumbling forward a step. As she pushed through the fluttering curtains and stepped out into the cool night air, a chill ran down her spine and her eyes stung and blurred. She reached up to brush at them with the back of her hand, only to find her cheeks damp-she hadn't even realized she was crying, hot tears streaming down her skin as she took quick, unsteady steps forward to stop whatever terrible thing her husband might be about to do.
To be continued...