Erik has nightmares. They’re not exactly strangers, nightmares and him. They typically follow a theme: his past following him, his past catching up with him, and his past taking hold of his future. They’re terrible. Gut wrenching, scream inducing terrible. The kind where you wake up and lay in bed trying to sort out the current reality. But they’re predictable.
But lately there have been new ones. A bit of variety to his nights. Ever since that kid, silver haired and fast talking, had freed him…ever since he made a comment that Erik didn’t think much of till much later…
He’d done some searching.
Erik dug up some of his past, the lighter parts mind you. Those parts that he had buried even deeper. Buried deep, forgotten partly to protect him and partly to protect the few good memories untarnished.
He had found a grave on a mountain, something new and not quite human, immigration papers and a name. Through all of his searching a simple sentence rang through his head:
“My mom knew a guy who could bend metal”
Erik'd had questions, found answers and now new nightmares followed him along with the old.
Some nights the nightmares that came weren’t as bad. They were of a different sort. Filled with frustration, anger, explanations and heart break. But they always ended with hope. Hope that his son would understand. Hope that his son would forgive. Hope that they would work together to save their kind, side by side.
Other nights were worse. The nightmares were new, his past twisted with his present. They were filled with scalpels, blood and needles. They were full of bullets that curved, agents that didn’t listen and a body that was always moving come to a final stop. There was always screaming, always blood, and always a father too late to save his son.
These were the worst. He’d wake up with cold sweat gluing the sheets to his skin and screams dying with gasps for air. He would cradle his head in his hands, attempting to control his breathing and remove the last image from his mind.
A boy strapped to a table, skin peeled back to reveal struggling muscles. Blood dripping down cold steel and eyes slowly going dim before Erik could reach him.
A gun being fired, a bullet aimed curving out of the way to hit another. A body tumbling on the ground before hitting a wall with a sickening thud. Blood pooling and dead eyes accusing.
It was always his fault. And he was always too late.
Every morning Erik would get up with a resolve. Today was it. Today was the day. It was the right time to tell him.
He would get in a car with a fake license plate and carry a fake ID. He would even start the car some days.
But it was never the right day. It was never the right time.
And it was always too late.