I woke to see you.
It was another dream.
Even though it pierced him to his core, these dreams always left Hale breathless, gasping as he startled awake, sheets clutched in his grip. It was still just another dream. No dream was like the other, but they all ended in his death. Every time he closed his eyes, he surrendered, and every time he awoke, his heart practically swelled in his chest.
Each night he laid his head to rest, his stalker would begin the hunt. He was nothing more than a shadow, usually resembling Hale himself, but he was ruthless in his every move. He was almost doubly as fast as Hale, and just a bit more agile. He was sure the shadow knew where he was, but it chose to let him free, feeling for the wind before coming in for the kill. Hale would have no choice but to run and run, fruitlessly fleeing each night before succumbing to the nightmare. And in the waking world, it had the audacity to only be a dream.
Everything in that dream realm stunk of metal and blood. The more gorey details were still nothing but a blur underfoot as he fled. He meant to remember, to stop and understand it, but there was nothing for him to hold onto. The walls he clung to to hide when he couldn’t run, they were flesh, pulsing with an ego. If he even just grazed them, the creature turned to him and laid waste to him. If he begged them for silence, he was found. They hated him, and yet he was sure they were nothing more than his own mind.
Despite it all, if he gave in to the creature, as he had done a handful of times, it turned its back on him. It left him alone for what seemed like years, eons even, all without returning. The scenery went freezing cold, deprived of the warmth of the hunter and his flesh. Hale was left to die so slowly that he could barely breathe his last breaths before the final hiss.
Even if the damned thing killed him slowly, let him rot for ages, or killed him from behind with a simple plunge through the heart, it was still just another dream. No matter what he did, it would simply only have to be this way.
Recurring dreams of death were a sign of something, as the Magias would say, and he would figure it out. Even as his legs wobbled getting out of bed each morning, he still put on some clothes and made some food. He had been increasingly paranoid about getting to bed early, recently. All his nights involved getting to bed so he could rest, even as he felt like his body would give out from the stress of it all. Dreaming was supposed to be good for you, but every time, he woke up bruised and battered from thrashing around and biting himself at night.
And as such, on a particular day of no substance, he opened his eyes as his trembling body sprung to life. On a whim, barely even in the waking world, Hale decided he would wake up from this dream; he would take the visitor from his mind and wrench him by the neck. By the time his eyes fully focused, he understood it all. When he stood today, he formed a purpose in his mind.
The image of the Magia clinic, sprawled on his bedside table, drew his glance. It was made to help people with curses in the beginning, operating under the codename ‘Old Hope’, but branched out into what they referred to as‘magical prophesizing’.
Hale, on a different, but still equally unimportant particular day, received a flyer for the service in the mail. It had obviously been planted by them or one of their marketers, so he tossed it aside initially. Yet, only days after laying hands on it for the first time, the dreams had gone from occasional to near daily. Clearly, he reasoned, he had been either cursed, or someone had a wild fortunal streak and saw into his future. It was most likely the former explanation, but Hale, for his own peace of mind, clung to the latter.
In his childhood, Hale had always been one for adventure and whimsy. As a young adult, the feelings remained the same, but tinted with an unusual hesitation. His “deaths” began in his late teens, grounding him and silencing his louder half. When he lived too loudly, got drunk and partied, it would come for him. He assumed it was a guardian of some sort that hunted him as punishment for hedonistic heresy, but then it beheaded him when he turned to see its face.
He pondered the thought for a moment, as he always found himself doing. In fact, he couldn’t help but to think of moments. Sleeping alone and eating alone, nodding off in public and waking himself with a jerk so as to not hurt anyone.
Hale thumbed over the Magia flyer in his hand, his eyes narrowing as he picked it up off the bedside table. Just as soon as he glanced at it, he found himself tucking it away as he slung his bag over his shoulder.