A Hope and Dreams

you awaken in a room, a bare wooden table stands in the middle of the room, and you each can see three more figures collapsed around you. the walls of the room are draped in tasteless red tapestry, and the table is heaped in backpacks. at the far end of the room you can see a fireplace, unlit, and cleared of soot. curtains cover what you presume to be windows to your right. there is a door to your left, with what appears to be a note tacked to none of you have any idea who you, or any of the other people in the room with you are. The note reads as follows, and is written in a sloping, (trying to be fancy, putting on airs of more) cursive: To A. Weaver, C. Morel, Twilight Stormshadow, and Niel West Heckens, We understand that you might find this situation to be frightening or befuddling. Trust us when we say that this lie to yourselves, to ourselves, is both hopefully temporary, and ultimately for the best. The hope, is that in losing some part of ourselves, you can be free from the fo...

Their body was like a scarecrow’s, straw seeping out of wounds instead of blood. The sight of someone picking at a scab (and blood welling forth) had always nauseated her. Even without the blood, the sight of Aiden grasping at one of the fibers sticking out of the cut and simply pulling it free was enough to force her to turn away.

A thin veil lay over the face of the person in the portrait behind their desk. The veil was neither mourning black, or wedding white, but instead a deep blue. The rest of their outfit was a suit of the same blue shade. A single hand was visible, a white-knuckled grip on the chair they stood behind. Although the features were obscured (or perhaps not painted at all), the figure still seemed to be glaring at everyone who entered the shop. “Who’s the woman in the picture?” the boy asked. The woman in the picture was a man. The man in the picture was the king’s advisor, known by the people as ‘The Bastard Queen’, not for being particularly unliked, of illegitimate birth, or any particular femininity, but because of the amount of power over the king he was rumored to have. Other portraits, scattered around the city, showed his face, but Adrian would proudly boast that hers was the only one that showed their mask. The portrait's presence was usually a point of pride for Adrian, as it was...

Her shop was filled with debris, out of the hope that it would make it seem as though she was more of an inscrutable expert. Detritus of someone she wishes she was in truth.

“This is what you do, isn’t it. You’re bleeding, injured, and the wound is trying to heal. But you’re refusing to let it, picking at the scab and the skin because you don’t want to let it scar. We’re here, we’re trying all we can to help you, but that’s part of the problem for you now. Maybe all the problem, as the damage you’ve done, trying to stop your healing, is greater than the original wound you suffered.” “You know that’s not true.” “Yeah, I do. I know you’re trying. And that’s– It’s better than you might’ve done, but we need you to do more. Or let us do more. Or let someone or something or somewhere do more.” “And if that’s too much?” “Then tell us. Because too much for you, means we’re not doing well enough. I’m not trying to say you need to become someone you’re not, to ignore everything that happened, just let the scars begin to form. Please.”

They were tipsy enough that they had forgotten that reality was a standard they were expected to adhere to when they spoke. She had seen beauty in the lights that she could see through the window, as she flew above her hometown. As she shoved the rose-tinted glasses away, she realized that those lights had always been nothing more than harsh, unforgiving, illumination. He never mastered the trick of lying to himself. He could tell anyone else whatever they needed to hear, or whatever he wanted them to think, and never feel a hint of guilt. But the instant he tried to convince himself of anything, he could feel his mind straining, a whisper from the edge of his hearing, asking ‘why’.