Chapter 1
"The way I see it, the impossible happens all the time; but we’re so
good at taking it for granted, we forget it was once impossible.”
--Neal Shusterman, Bruiser
The frigid blistering wind carrases me. The Stygian darkness itself is enough to render me blind; my only solace is the silvery light peeking through the canopy of the scores of towering trees. The thought of where I am --or where I am going, does not occur to me. I can only think of running--far away to a place in which He can never find.
My entire body thrums with adrenaline. I can hear --I can taste, everything: the whistling of the wind, the rustling of the leaves, the blood rushing through my veins.
Not a soul seemed to be in sight. There was no twittering of the passerine birds; nor the sounds of the nocturnal critters of the forest. Instead, it was eerily quiet, almost as If I were the only soul in sight. It occurred to me at that moment that, not for the first time, I was utterly alone.
Slowly, the adrenaline begins to bleed out of me, and the panic and fear begin to set in. The reality of my situation kicks in, and I collapse onto my knees --whether the cause was the exhaustion or the crushing, seemingly timeless devastation that enveloped me was a mystery.
This seemingly endless state of desolation crept its claws about my neck, and it seemed for a moment that this would be my denouement.
Death by asphyxiation. I don't know when or how, but I can feel and taste the salty liquid as it slowly traverses down my pale and sunken cheeks, burning the bruises and cuts that I know are there.
I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how or when they started-- the tears. This thing that was slowly dripping onto my soiled hands and mingling with the brownish soil. And shockingly enough l can't help but want to drown in this feeling, to sink and never resurface. Nevertheless, I begrudgingly and slowly pick myself up and stare at the encompassing heavens above me.
October 21, 1977
For the past few months, I have been suffering from recurring vivid dreams, and try as I might, I cannot seem to piece together the significance of such anomalies.
They begin similarly, with me, alone in a wooded area. The waning moon, high in the sky gleamed bright above me. Always, as I reach my much smaller hand out towards the heavens, the sky --though I cannot be sure, seems to descend closer.
Then, a low and melodious voice snaps me out of my reverie. Suddenly the scenery changes; I am no longer in that beautiful woodland. Rather I am enveloped by darkness. Comforting darkness, the sort of darkness that feeds my innermost self with warmth.
I am no longer alone; that soothing voice wraps around me, singing sweet nothings. Then it leaves, and I am left adrift, chasing after that feeling.
.........
From a very young age, he had been a sickly child. Despite that, he had very few memories spent in an actual hospital. His mother had pleaded with Tobias many times for actual medical attention.
Getting beat by your father is never a pleasant experience. it's even worse when you are said beating is happening when you are already experiencing something equally if not more painful than a beating.
Though that rarely happens. After last time, Tobias made sure to steer clear of him whenever he was having one his fits. Lest anymore bodily fluids stain his iron-pressed shirts.
Only exceptions were when the sickness comes unexpectedly; which happens more often than he'd like.
This sickness; It was one of his many blights that his father always sought to remind him of. Not only was he a freak, but he was a sickly freak.
And an expensive one too. Even though he had spent most of his time bedridden at home. He had very few memories going to the hospital.
Despite his limited memories of the experience, he could very well remember his extreme distaste for the place. The scent of antiseptic and disinfectant seemed to permeate the entire ward; Not even the brightly painted walls and infantile posters plastered over the walls could hide the inhospitable feeling.
None ever really knew what was wrong with him. The symptoms varied. Some days simply a whiff of foods of any sort would have him hurling his entire guts out and then some. Other days he seemed to be completely fine, able to stand even the most putrid of smells.
When ah thought he was asleep his mother had once said he was cursed, or rather that he was the curse.
Months spent alone in hospitals, days spent staring listlessly at vibrant walls, and moments spent surrounded by elastic grins and sickly sweet voices; That is how he spent his lovely adolescence. How exuberant.
October 30, 1977
For the last week, I've not slept a wink. On and on again, I've been consistently woken by that blasted dream. Try as I might, I've nothing all week but eight measly hours. I must have tried it all in my quest to vanquish this affliction. I've tried using sleeping potions, spells, and other magical means-- but I always seem to be awoken in the dead of night by the same nightmare. I might as well have been flogging a dead horse!
Can it even be considered a nightmare?
If I ever hope to rid myself of this affliction, then I must find the root of the problem.