Prologue: Joseph
November 14, a bone chilling wind whistled by me. The gale made me grit my teeth and bury my head in the shoulder on my coat. Damn New York winters, it’s not even December and I think i can already see snow! A very light snow began to fall, virtually invisible in the frosty air of Central Park. The winter winds whistled past me, blowing their freezing, temperature-dropping winds, forcing me to fully zip up my ebony coat and flip the fur-lined hood over my head with a tired sigh, my breath leaving my mouth as a wave of icy vapor. “Where is she..” I silently mutter to myself. “She may have already gone insi-” A figure comes into view as the whispers leaving my mouth fade out to silence. I stepped closer to get a better view as the wind and snow obscured my vision. The figure’s form came into full focus, and I gave a soft smile. She came after all….
I slowed my pace and gently approached her, as if I would startle her she’d run away, like a deer in pasture. My smile still lay across my face, which i could feel getting warmer, so I knew I must have been blushing, just a little, but I still thought it was dumb. I don’t get it… It’s just her… We talk everyday...Why am I blushing like a maniac NOW of all times… My mind and heart raced as if they were trying to sprint through a marathon, and it was almost as if I couldn’t feel the chill of the wind anymore, just a warm feeling spreading throughout my being. Like a numbness not even the melodies flowing through my headphones can fix is just...lifted away when the figure comes into full view. An elegant, maroon river of hair flows down her back, complemented with a handwoven ruby and pink beanie worn on her head. She fiddled nervously with her shining, silver and brick red coat, moving her black-gloved hands over it as she looked anxious, nervous even. What’s she so nervous for? And…..dammit why can’t I stop blushing!? My gaze moved lower to her ash-colored jeans, then back up to her face, only to see her also bearing the relentless winter winds. Alright, you gotta calm down, Joseph, you know what to say, what to do, you’ve got this on lock….. I wasn’t calmed down in the slightest by my own internal attempt at self-encouragement, as my mind and heart continues moving faster than lightning itself.
As I slowly continued to approach her, I found the words I’d practiced over and over again slowly fade away. Any confidence I had, any assurance this was going to go well, was all tossed out the window and shattered. I felt as though I was literally sweating bullets, hell at this point I’d choose that to doing what I’m about to do and yet….and yet...as I continue to think and reclaim my thoughts, I start to also look back at my memories. She and I have known each other since grade school, and since then been great friends, but in the deepest, most hidden parts of my being, I began to form greater feelings towards her. Affection, attraction, the general want to just be around her, and the worst part is, the part that makes me as nervous as I am, blushing beet red with shy embarrassment, is that I’ve seen the look that she gives me, that sparkle in her eyes. She feels the same way for me, but is just too scared to admit it and confess these affections. I can’t help but mentally laugh at this, it was yet another thing we both had in common with one another.
Her head turned towards me and the crunch of snow underneath my feet entered her earshot; her waterfall of hair gracefully moving with her motions. As soon as her sweet, intoxicating emerald eyes make contact with my deep brown, I could see her face grow a bright rose color as I enter her field of view, but a small, sweet smile also formed on her face. I couldn’t help but smile back widely; in my eyes, her smile was greater, stronger, more potent than any drug. I opened my mouth to speak, waiting for my own voice to enter the chilled, whistling air, everything just...blanked out. The image, the girl, the snow-covered landscape around us and the skyscrapers in the background, in an instant disappears, leaving only white, silent emptiness.
Part 1: Evan
A flat, monotone noise loudly pulsated from the thin, white object on my side-table. The noise echoed off of the azure blue walls and into my ears, forcing me out of my dream, as well as my very short period of rem sleep. My eyes creak open to the familiar landscape of my bedroom, which looks sideways because of my positioning. Through the darkness I can vaguely spot my dresser, as well as a few articles of clothing strewn across the ground and my less-than-useless katana I’d bought a years ago hanging on the wall. I slowly rolled over to my other side; from here, I could see my beaten up computer desk, torn and ripped up chair, and my computer monitor. I could also see the alarm clock resting on the side table next to my bed. The large, flashing L.E.D lights flashed 3:16 AM. 2 hours….I seem to be getting less and less sleep everytime I try. God Dammit I sat up from my sheetless bed and rubbed my eyes, letting out a loud yawn into the open air.
I routinely crack my knuckles as I do every morning, a slightly sickening pop emanates from each finger as I add a light amount of pressure to it. Once I’ve done so with each finger as well as both my thumbs, i run a hand through the chaotic mess atop my head I call hair. A few strands of the blonde-dyed-silver hair obscures my vision for a second before I instinctively brush it out of the way. My gaze falls to the ground where a pair of worn and torn blue jeans lazily lay on the floor next to my bed. Sleepily, and without a second thought, i slide them on, rising to my feet immediately afterwards and stretching. I let out an inhuman sound as I stretch my sleep-recovering muscles, after a few seconds letting my arms lazily fall to my sides. “Good morning, world,” I groan in a tired, sarcastic tone.
I flip on the worn, shadeless lamp resting on my bedside table, the full, strewn about mess of my bedroom now fully illuminated. I ignore, mentally telling myself I’ll do it tomorrow, but my own words mean nothing, not even to me. I instinctively and lazily walk towards my computer chair and sitting down, a loud squeak echoing around my room as I do so. Without hesitation, I take the pulsating, crimson gaming mouse in my hand, move it around a brief moment, and the last image I saw before I attempted sleep appeared. I ignore my gaming notifications, as well as all my social media at the moment, my mind only focused on one thing as I open up my files and open a document I’ve typed at least a million words into; My Dreams. As soon as the words appear on screen, I scroll down to the very bottom of the page, began a new line, type in todays date, then lets loose.
6-14-14 - I had another one of those dreams. This one though seemed...more real, as if I could hear and feel this person’s thoughts and emotions. It was….odd. But, I do at least have a name to go on. Joseph. No last name, or a name for that girl he was with, but it’s something to at least help me understand. I should maybe look into stuff like this more….If I can ever be awake enough, that is. But...in the dream it’s funny… he was in New York, Central Park by the look of it. I’ve always wanted to see it, I’ve never even been and yet I felt like I was there while I drempt. I don’t get this at all. Hell, I’ll see if maybe I can ask the Doc. I mean she IS there to help me with what happened to Mom and Dad, but… No, there’s no way she’d help. After all, there’s nothing in it for her. I just need to figure this all out on my own and hope something starts making sense real soon.
I backed away from the keyboard with a deep, tired sigh, leaning back in my chair as I simply close my eyes, smirking at the silent darkness around me. It was as if the world had ended, and there was nothing left but empty space and dark matter, no stars, no lights, no people, nothing. I breathed deeply as images in my head began to take form. Images of an empty beach, the crashing of the waves against the land and the squawking of the gulls. Images of a young 10 year old boy running unto the sand, only to realize it’s really hot from the sun’s rays beating down on it. Images of a tired, happy mother, and a exhausted, yet enthusiastic father following him as they talked. Images of that fun day at the beach, the boy’s mind focused on every single little thing, as if every grain of sand was a new experience. Images of the setting sun, the tired parents packing everything up, the boy already asleep on a floral beach towel. Images of a boy being forced upright from his slumber, rising from his bed, scared and alone, searching for his mother. Images of vague outlines of furniture as a woman’s deep sobs coming from the only illuminated room, which is cracked opened ever so slightly as to not see the full image on the inside. Images of the boy opening the door with a single hand, only to see his tired father, his role model, his hero, hanging from a ceiling fan with a thick rope around his neck, which was bent at a sickening angle. Images of his mother with tear stained eyes, holding in one hand a note now stained with her tormented tears, the other hand holding the handgun his parents told him never to touch. Images of the mother looking at the boy with red eyes, the child’s eyes also red and tears of sadness and confusion rolling down his face. Images of the mother mouthing two simple words, unheard, but understood. ‘I’m sorry’. Images of the mother taking the gun in her mouth and in a sheer instant, without hesitation, pull the trigger, blood, bone and brain matter spraying out the back of her head as she falls limp to the ground, blood pooling and soaking into the hotel carpet. Images of the boy falling to his knees sobbing loudly, hoping, praying anyone would find him and just take him away from here.
My eyes shoot open wide as the images flash before my eyes and silent, staining tears roll down my cheek. Look at me, still crying like a ****ing baby….I ….Come on... It’s been 7 years already, Evan, let it go...just let go…. I scoffed at my own mental attempts to convince myself to let out some built-up emotion, sniffling and wiping the tears off with my hand. Right below my hand was my wrist, and on my wrist; the remains of all the times I attempted to find comfort in the sharp end of a razorblade, finding only a substitute I grew tied to. I needed it, I craved it, I wanted it more than anything….but I knew it was killing me. WIth each swipe of the blade my own life dripped into the carpet, drop by drop, at back then, I didn’t care. I, and no one else around me, gave two ****s if I lived or died. But, well, ever since my Aunt found the razorblades and forced my scars into her view, I’ve been getting ‘psychiatric help’. As much as I mock it, it has helped me. I no longer crave the separation of my own skin, i can look at a razor without getting the urge to do so. It’s been almost half a year today since I’ve been going there, and I want to tell Doctor Hawthorn, my physiatrist, about these dreams. This man, Joseph...who was he? Why was I seeing his life in my dreams? What the hell is going on?! The questions don’t cease as my mind is too active for it’s own good.
I keep staring at my marked-up wrist for what seemed to be a good 3 minutes before I hear a loud, familiar notification from my computer. She couldn’t be up this early, could she? I leaned back towards the computer and moved the mouse ever so slightly to once again bring the screen to life.
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