gone.
Monday, 9:04 pm
Sebastian groaned as he lifted his head from the cold, tiled floor. A pain shot up through his spine as he sat up. What the heck . . .? It took a moment for the memory of the strange water lady to come back to him. Was that real? No, it couldn’t have been. But then why was he lying on the bathroom floor? God, why was everything so weird? What was happening to him? Sara, the explosion, the vortex, the weird thing that had happened at school with the creepy classroom. A water lady? Maybe Jared had slipped him some acid as a practical joke, but still. . .
He managed to pull himself up off the tiled floor, cast a quick glance into the sink to see if any water creatures were there, and then spent the rest of the evening lying on his soft bed, reading comics and watching a Judge Mathis marathon on TV. When sleep started to overtake him he clicked off the TV, lay back and willed Sara’s face to come into his mind. He wanted to dream about her, about her lips, her eyes, the way she held his face in her soft hands, the way she moved. Yes, that’s what he would dream about. He would revel in her softness, her midnight blue eyes. He felt himself drawn to them, to their darkness, longing to be consumed by them. Deeper and deeper he fell into them, into the world of dreams. . .
He gazes at the midnight blue, the sky above. The stars seemed bright before, but now they’re extinguished. They can’t handle the pain. The moon shines down brightly, refusing to avert her eyes.
Look at it , the moon seems to say. Look at what you’ve done .
The Great Sphinx of Giza glows under the brilliant moon, a towering backdrop to the small town below. The houses, made of stone and mud, seem to sag under the weight of so much sadness. In the town’s center, a large pit is dug into the ground, billowing out fire, casting an orange glow onto dusty streets. The flames reach out to him, long fingers filled with grief, despair, agony.
He steps back.
What have I done?
On certain doors of the sagging huts there are large blood smears, as though they were put there on purpose. From one of the doors, not marked with blood, his twin emerges. The wet, black hair hangs in his face, white teeth glinting in the dark as an evil grin spreads over his horrible face. Screams erupt from the mud hut. Then another hut. And another. It continues on, the whole village in pain, crying out. The anguish of grieving mothers, the despair of mourning fathers.
His twin comes toward him, closer and closer. He holds onto a scythe dripping with blood.
Sebastian glances down at his arm. Something warm and wet covers his skin. His eyes open wider as he sees the scythe in front of him, blood dripping from the blade and down the handle to his hands. He tries to scream, but nothing comes out.
Throw it away. Get rid of it. But the scythe is stuck to him, stuck with blood. He tries to scream again.
Buuuuzzz .
His twin stands in front of him, gazing at him curiously. His hand comes up, a finger. The twin points at Sebastian, accusing. Sebastian closes his eyes. Stop , he screams inside his head. Stop!
The screams from the village keep coming.
Buuuuzzz .
Sebastian opens his eyes.
His twin is gone. In his place is Mr. Thompson. He’s younger, dressed differently, and covered in mud. He wears a periwinkle blue peasant shirt. Mr. Thompson gazes at him, concern on his face, but still pointing at him, his finger dripping blood.
“It’s you,” Mr. Thompson says. “Don’t you remember?”
Buuuuzzz .
Sebastian jolted awake and sat upright in his bed, chest pounding, hands shaking, forehead laced with sweat. He tried to slow his breathing with steady breaths.
Buuuuzzz .
His memory was fuzzy. What was that?
Buuuuzzz .
There it was again.
Buuuuzzz .
Finally, he comprehended the sound. His phone vibrated.
Buuuuzzz .
He took a deep breath and remembered the dream.
Just a dream. He reached over to his end table to
Monday, 9:04 pm
Sebastian groaned as he lifted his head from the cold, tiled floor. A pain shot up through his spine as he sat up. What the heck . . .? It took a moment for the memory of the strange water lady to come back to him. Was that real? No, it couldn’t have been. But then why was he lying on the bathroom floor? God, why was everything so weird? What was happening to him? Sara, the explosion, the vortex, the weird thing that had happened at school with the creepy classroom. A water lady? Maybe Jared had slipped him some acid as a practical joke, but still. . .
He managed to pull himself up off the tiled floor, cast a quick glance into the sink to see if any water creatures were there, and then spent the rest of the evening lying on his soft bed, reading comics and watching a Judge Mathis marathon on TV. When sleep started to overtake him he clicked off the TV, lay back and willed Sara’s face to come into his mind. He wanted to dream about her, about her lips, her eyes, the way she held his face in her soft hands, the way she moved. Yes, that’s what he would dream about. He would revel in her softness, her midnight blue eyes. He felt himself drawn to them, to their darkness, longing to be consumed by them. Deeper and deeper he fell into them, into the world of dreams. . .
He gazes at the midnight blue, the sky above. The stars seemed bright before, but now they’re extinguished. They can’t handle the pain. The moon shines down brightly, refusing to avert her eyes.
Look at it , the moon seems to say. Look at what you’ve done .
The Great Sphinx of Giza glows under the brilliant moon, a towering backdrop to the small town below. The houses, made of stone and mud, seem to sag under the weight of so much sadness. In the town’s center, a large pit is dug into the ground, billowing out fire, casting an orange glow onto dusty streets. The flames reach out to him, long fingers filled with grief, despair, agony.
He steps back.
What have I done?
On certain doors of the sagging huts there are large blood smears, as though they were put there on purpose. From one of the doors, not marked with blood, his twin emerges. The wet, black hair hangs in his face, white teeth glinting in the dark as an evil grin spreads over his horrible face. Screams erupt from the mud hut. Then another hut. And another. It continues on, the whole village in pain, crying out. The anguish of grieving mothers, the despair of mourning fathers.
His twin comes toward him, closer and closer. He holds onto a scythe dripping with blood.
Sebastian glances down at his arm. Something warm and wet covers his skin. His eyes open wider as he sees the scythe in front of him, blood dripping from the blade and down the handle to his hands. He tries to scream, but nothing comes out.
Throw it away. Get rid of it. But the scythe is stuck to him, stuck with blood. He tries to scream again.
Buuuuzzz .
His twin stands in front of him, gazing at him curiously. His hand comes up, a finger. The twin points at Sebastian, accusing. Sebastian closes his eyes. Stop , he screams inside his head. Stop!
The screams from the village keep coming.
Buuuuzzz .
Sebastian opens his eyes.
His twin is gone. In his place is Mr. Thompson. He’s younger, dressed differently, and covered in mud. He wears a periwinkle blue peasant shirt. Mr. Thompson gazes at him, concern on his face, but still pointing at him, his finger dripping blood.
“It’s you,” Mr. Thompson says. “Don’t you remember?”
Buuuuzzz .
Sebastian jolted awake and sat upright in his bed, chest pounding, hands shaking, forehead laced with sweat. He tried to slow his breathing with steady breaths.
Buuuuzzz .
His memory was fuzzy. What was that?
Buuuuzzz .
There it was again.
Buuuuzzz .
Finally, he comprehended the sound. His phone vibrated.
Buuuuzzz .
He took a deep breath and remembered the dream.
Just a dream. He reached over to his end table to
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