Only the beginning.

A sense of panic overcomes me and I am falling, falling, falling on my back until I am caught in the warm safety that is my bed, the hoodie I had unceremoniously fallen asleep in clung to my body by sweat. My eyes snap open, a small croak pressed from my lungs as I sit forward. The room is filled with moonlight, illuminating the small space to reveal no other presence besides Mouse; a fat grey kitten who lay nestled at the foot of my bed. She stretched lazily, focusing her green eyes on my own navy blues before turning her attention to the window. My spine stiffened with hers as she investigated further by jumping into the windowpane; obviously something had caught her attention. If it was enough to wake me of the dreams I had been having, it may be something worth investigating.

It wasn’t until that moment the memory of those dreams came creeping back into my thoughts, bringing a heart-pounding sensation with them. Flashbacks, each of them a snippet of a thought or memory from what seemed to be another person’s lifetime. I distinctly recall a Pharaoh, bending over a treasure of emeralds, gold and rubies, a small girl in an elaborate Victorian dress examining a mirror, and a woman who appeared to be a slave slamming closed a diary, a hint of green shimmering before fading into collision with other unidentifiable images.

I pulled myself out of bed, deciding it would be best to get a bit of fresh air, and perhaps ensuring there was nothing waiting outside my window would help me to fall back asleep. A more restful sleep, at that.

The summer night is warm against my skin as I stop out my back door, noticing the ludicrously bright light shining from the moon; it was almost as if it were the light of day, though everything glowed pale against a sky black as ink. The yard is decorated with pink and silver streamers, a glittering sign announcing “Sweet 16” hung crooked from it’s nail against the side of the house. It was strange to think that earlier that morning it had all been a new sight, announcing my arrival to the ripe age of sixteen. Now I only wish the balloons weren’t casting that eerie shadow across my yard, the only bit of black in the milky glow. I can see perfectly into every nook and cranny, feeling as though I can almost count the hairs on the black cat perched in the corner of my yard. I can hear him purring, it is obnoxiously loud. I feel almost dizzy, momentarily stunned by the pitch of the crickets singing their nightsongs. They almost sound alarmed, as if screaming a warning, but perhaps I am only delirious from lack of sleep. I am dazed as it grows louder, faster; blending into the loud undertones of that tomcat’s purr. It all grows to be too much, and a sudden commotion of energy behind me pushes me into blackness. I do not feel or hear or see. Seconds, minutes, hours, days or years pass me by, for who is really to know? I am cradled in warm thought, oblivious to reality until I feel the black slip to grey, the grey to white, and white into shapes and colors of surroundings. Objects form; a desk, piled high with paper, a wall (or four) with peeling green paint, a fireplace with a bubbling teapot perched above it, and the very own red velvet chair I am seated in before a heavy desk.

I believe I have seen this room in a story book.