A dream which is not interpreted is like a letter which is not read.
I found myself back in our old house.
It was unmistakably the living room of our childhood home. The familiar leather sofas and armchairs surrounded the sleigh-like coffee table, and the old TV sat in its usual spot, radiating a sense of nostalgia.
Des entered, and my gaze snapped to him. He looked younger—years younger—but that wasn't what unsettled me the most. It was the expression in his eyes: a frigid, unrelenting disgust, something I had never seen directed at me before.
"Des..." My voice sounded strange, thin and fragile.
I glanced down at my hands—small and delicate. Panic crept in as I shifted my eyes to the TV's reflection, revealing a tiny figure staring back at me.
"I'm disappointed in you," Des's voice, cold and sharp, pulled my attention back to him.
"I'm sorry..." The words slipped out, almost instinctively.
"You are weak, Shaytan," he sneered, the name sounding foreign from his lips. "I hate the weak."
Des had never called me by my full name before...
"Des, please," I whimpered, the plea trembling from my lips.
"You let Alistair die," he accused, his voice hardening. "He was always by your side, and you just turned your back and ran away."
"I... I didn't want to," I stammered, desperation thick in my voice. "I wanted to save him!"
"If you really wanted to save him, you would have stayed and fought," Des's eyes narrowed, cutting through me. "Is that what I taught you as a hunter? To run away with your tail between your legs?"
"No..." I whispered, the word barely audible.
"And your girlfriend?" he continued, his words laced with venom. "You dare to say you loved her when you stood there and watched her die?"
"No... No!" I cried, shaking my head. "I wanted to save her!"
"But you failed," he declared coldly. "Her death is on you."
I sank to my knees, the weight of his words crushing me.
"And now," he pressed, his voice a cruel whisper, "what are you doing while your half-brother is dying? Shaking like a leaf, telling yourself you can't do anything."
"What can I do?!" I cried out, tears streaming down my face.
"Don't you see?" he shouted, his voice reverberating through the room. "Everyone around you is going to die because you're weak!"
"Stop it," I begged, my voice breaking. "Just stop it..."
"But you know, Shaytan, that's not why I hate you," Des said with icy calm. I looked up at his towering figure, dread pooling in my stomach. "You caused our mother's death. It was your fault, yours alone. Why did you have to be born at all?"
His fingers wrapped around my neck, squeezing with such brutal force that I couldn't fight back. My limbs went numb, my vision blurred, and the world narrowed to the crushing pain in my throat.
"Are you afraid?" he asked, his voice as cold as death. "Are you afraid, Shaytan?"
I shut my eyes tightly, praying for it to end. The searing pain in my chest was unbearable, far worse than anything I had ever known. As I teetered on the brink of unconsciousness, his grip abruptly loosened. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, the burning in my lungs a cruel relief.
When I opened my eyes, Des was gone. In his place, a woman stood by the window, her silhouette framed against the tranquil landscape beyond.
"Mum...?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Her icy gaze locked onto me, and with a few swift steps, she was in front of me. She slapped me, the sting of her hand blazing across my cheek.
"You're not my son," she spat, her words cutting deep. "And I'm not your mother. Don't ever call me that again!"
She loomed over me, a figure of cold contempt. I felt small, utterly helpless beneath the weight of her hatred.
"Are you afraid?" she asked, her voice a chilling echo of Des's. "Are you afraid, Shaytan?"
My eyes widened in shock. The same question, the same piercing accusation.
And then, just like Des, she was gone. One blink, and she vanished, leaving me alone in the suffocating silence of the apartment. The stillness pressed in from all sides, a void I could feel in my bones. I knew—without needing to check—that no one else was there. The house was empty.
Driven by an inexplicable impulse, I stumbled to the door and stepped outside. But instead of the familiar sights, the world before me had transformed, twisted into something unrecognizable.
Opposite me, the pond's surface rippled gently as a soft breeze caressed the water, its touch sending shivers through the hanging branches of a weeping willow. The tree's drooping limbs brushed the bank like somber sentinels, swaying with a melancholy grace. I heard a door slam behind me. When I turned, where the house once stood, there was only a dense forest, silent and watchful.
I hesitated, then moved towards the lake. The breeze, light and soothing, kissed my skin and tousled my hair, attempting to console the despondent willow. Yet, the tree remained as sorrowful as ever, its reflection distorted in the water's glassy surface.
The water gleamed, clear and serene, beckoning me to touch its mirror-like calm. Tentatively, I reached out. My fingertips brushed the surface, and I recoiled, heart racing, as the water briefly flushed a deep, garnet-red, as if stained with blood. I stared in horror at my trembling fingers, now wet with only clear droplets.
I bent down again, my pulse thrumming in my ears. The water appeared normal, its unsettling transformation vanished as though it had never happened. My mind raced with fear and doubt. Kneeling, I hesitated before reaching into the pond once more. This time, my hand submerged into its warmth, breaking the smooth surface with ripples that radiated outward. I exhaled, half-convinced I had imagined it all.
But as I withdrew my hand, something latched onto my wrist. I gasped, freezing in place as icy fingers gripped me tightly. I struggled, desperate to break free, but the unseen force held firm. My eyes locked onto the water, where a shadowy figure emerged beneath the surface—a figure I recognized with sickening certainty.
It was him. The first life I had taken. My first kill as a hunter.
The memory rushed back like a tidal wave. Young hunters proved their mettle by executing their first kill publicly. My victim had been a vampire, preying on humans and leaving a trail of death. Captured and condemned, he was handed to me for execution. His pleas for mercy had gone unheard as I slashed his throat, his headless body collapsing at my feet. Now, beneath the water, the same lifeless figure clutched my wrist, the gaping wound still visible on his neck.
"No!" I groaned, panic mounting. "Stop! Leave me alone!"
I fought against his grip, but more hands emerged, latching onto me. Jo's face appeared, her eyes filled with sorrow and accusation. Alistair followed, his gaze heavy with blame. My mother's eyes met mine, burning with hatred as her fingers joined the others, tightening their hold.
"No, stop!" I cried, tears blurring my vision.
The water churned with countless corpses, all reaching for me, dragging me under. Each face was familiar, a testament to every life I had ended. They pulled relentlessly, their cold hands sealing my fate. My lungs screamed for air, my vision darkened, and I was swallowed by the depths.
The sun's rays fractured on the water's surface above me as I sank, the last bubbles escaping my lips. My body fought in vain, heavy with despair and exhaustion. It was over.
Suddenly, I hit the ground with a jarring thud, coughing and gasping for breath. The cold marble beneath me was a stark contrast to the suffocating water. As my lungs steadied, I forced my eyes open, taking in my surroundings.
I was sprawled on a vast, checkered floor of black and white tiles, reminiscent of a chessboard. Around me, two rows of strange, small figures stood silently, no taller than a meter. They were clad in identical white uniforms, their faces obscured by ornate carnival masks. My heart raced as I realized I had returned to my original size.
"Welcome," a voice echoed.
I looked up to see a child seated on a throne opposite me. Though small in stature, he was human-sized, his black hair stark against his pristine white attire. A pale mask covered his face, making his already pale skin appear ghostly. His posture exuded an unsettling blend of elegance and arrogance, a calm that bordered on malevolence.
I almost laughed bitterly. What kind of absurd masquerade had I stumbled into?
"Where am I?" I asked, my voice echoing softly in the strange, vast room.
"You are dreaming," he replied, with an air of practiced elegance.
It wasn't until much later that I realized he hadn't exactly answered my question, at least not in the way I had expected.
"Oh," I murmured, the weight of his words settling in. "I am dreaming."
He nodded, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.
"And why," I continued, "do I dream of attending a masquerade ball where everyone is a dwarf except me?"
His expression darkened at the term, a hiss of displeasure escaping his lips, a sharp contrast to his earlier composure.
"I never said that none of this could be real," he countered, a threat lacing his tone. "What makes you so certain that if you die here, you'll wake up in reality?"
I crossed my arms over my chest, fixing him with a skeptical glare. "Because dreams have no real connection to reality?" I replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
He sighed, long and weary, as if burdened by my stubborn disbelief.
"And now comes the part," I added mockingly, "where I'm having tea with fluffy pink unicorns and dancing on rainbows with elves, who bury their gold at the other end."
His sigh deepened, laden with exasperation. "Is it too much to ask you to behave normally?" he asked, his patience fraying. "It would be wise to conduct yourself properly when facing someone who holds your life or death in their hands."
"In a dream?" I arched an eyebrow, defiance glinting in my eyes. "No way!"
With a resigned expression, he exhaled and dismissed me with a weary wave. "I've had enough of you for today," he said with a tone of superiority. "I'll see you again tomorrow."
I grunted, feeling a surge of triumph. "Go on now," he commanded, waving me off again like a nobleman shooing away a bothersome servant. "Your bloody cocoa is getting cold."
At that, my eyes snapped open, and I sat up in bed, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
Three days had passed since that peculiar night, yet it remained the strangest nightmare I'd ever had—and I'd had plenty of bizarre dreams lately. I shrugged it off, choosing not to dwell on it.
As usual, Rolo woke me up with a mug of cocoa. What struck me as odd was how normal he acted, as if that night had never happened. But I knew better—he had been the one who suffered the most. Despite my desire to prod, I held back. Some things, I understood, were beyond words.
Shaking my head, I pushed the thoughts aside and focused on what mattered. I had to visit Ábel.
The hospital smelled the same as always—sterile, a mix of antiseptic and something I could never quite place. The sound of my footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway as I approached Ábel's room. The rhythmic beeping of the machines greeted me before I even opened the door.
There he was, lying still, his chest rising and falling with each steady breath. His face was peaceful, almost too peaceful, like he was just taking a long nap. But I knew better.
I pulled the chair close to his bed and sat down, the familiar ache in my chest making itself known. "Hey, Ábel," I said quietly, though I didn't expect a response. "Brought something for you."
Reaching into my bag, I pulled out a worn copy of The Little Prince.
I cleared my throat and began reading aloud. "Once upon a time, there was a little prince who lived on a planet that was scarcely bigger than himself, and who had need of a friend..."
The words filled the room, soft and familiar. I glanced at Ábel, hoping for a flicker of recognition, a twitch, anything. But he stayed still, his breathing the only response.
I kept reading, letting the story pull me in.
The quiet stretched on, but I kept reading. I didn't care if it seemed pointless. Maybe he could hear me, maybe he couldn't, but I had to try. I read about the little prince's journey, the fox who wanted to be tamed, and the lessons he learned along the way.
I paused to clear my throat, the silence between the words pressing in on me. "I am waiting for you, Ábel," I murmured, more to myself than him. "You've got to come back, Ábel."
I returned to the book, the steady rhythm of the story offering a strange kind of comfort. As I read on, the hospital room faded away, replaced by the vivid images the words painted in my mind. But every now and then, I'd glance at Ábel, hoping for any sign of change.
Hours passed, and my voice grew hoarse, but I didn't stop. I read until the weight of exhaustion tugged at my eyelids, the book heavy in my hands. But I stayed, letting the story fill the room, a quiet promise that I wouldn't leave him.
The day stretched into evening, and still, I read the story for the thousandth time too.
After reading for what felt like an eternity, my voice rasped from the endless words spilling into the quiet room. The story had run its course, the pages fluttering closed in my lap.
Still, there was no movement from Ábel, no sign that he was closer to waking. I leaned forward, brushing a hand gently across his forehead.
My gaze shifted to my hands, fingers curling as the sharp edge of my claws emerged, glinting faintly in the dim light. I slashed a finger across my palm, the sting sharp. Blood welled up, dark and viscous, pooling in the shallow cut. Slowly, I let a few drops of my blood fall into his mouth, the crimson liquid slipping past his lips.
Seconds stretched into an eternity, and still, nothing changed.