Blueheart's whole body was shaking. Blood covered everything; the walls, the ceiling, even him. He struggled, but to no avail. The restraints on his hooves were too strong. The white hot pain in his back told him that his wings were missing. How did that happen again? It was all happening so quick..
"Vandal," he muttered, barely a whisper. "I'm sorry.."
"It's too late," said a dark voice.
A searing pain to his neck.
Then blackness.
Andrew jolted awake as the nightmare reached its climax. Sweat drenched his forehead and chest, and he quickly took in five panicked gasps of air. Fresh, rain-scented, real air. It took a while for him to realize that it was just a dream, and he was in his dark apartment; the neon lights outside shining through the lone, damp window on the wall. He sighed, then sat up and cupped his face in his palms.
He lost count of how many nightmares he had a long time ago. They were repetitive, happening every other night or so. Andrew didn't know when they began. So much was unknown about these; they weren't scary in the least bit, but he was always dying of a heart attack when he woke. Sure, he occasionally saw some blood, or felt some pain, but that was the scariest they got. Plus he used to deal with those things a lot, back in the Army.
Andrew got up, and realized it was somewhere around midnight. The distant cars honking outside and trains passing by made him sure of that. In New York, it was always busy, even at night, although less so. He liked the sound. It was soothing to him, and made him have a sense of safeness.
He made his way to the bathroom, turned on the lights, and looked at himself in the mirror. He was a mess, his jet black hair sticking out in all directions. Sometimes, it sucked having long, thick hair. He turned on the faucet and threw water on his face, waking himself up. He slicked back his hair, then looked back into the mirror, hoping to see an improvement. He could see his cyan eyes twinkling through the black strands, but that was all the improvement he got. His hair and eyes were a strange combination; the darkest hair with the lightest eyes. He thought of it as a gift.
Andrew thought about his most recent nightmare. This one was... different. He felt as if he died, and it made sense. That never happened in the other ones. The other ones were just distant images, along with sounds. He recalled back to his most memorable bad dream.
Large, violet eyes, on the verge of crying. They were wild with fear.
Excruciating pain in his stomach. He looked down to see a bullet hole, with dark, red blood squirting out. He could hear a distant female voice, calling something, but he couldn't understand what. Then his legs buckled from underneath him, and he fell.
He was closing his eyes, his lips on someone else's. But who's? He's not in a relationship.
This was all normal for a nightmare. Scrambled images that meant nothing. But he could feel emotion in them; strong emotions.
He looked down and scowled. "Confusing" was an understatement. Hopefully he would understand things soon... Andrew then smiled, suddenly remembering vital info about today. He was finally going to see a psychologist about them. Hopefully get rid of them, but most certainly at least understand what they meant. He didn't know anything about these dreams, but he did know one thing: they were more than dreams. And they felt real. Very, very, real.
A train horn in the distance woke him from his mini day-dream. He figured he should go back to sleep; they never occurred twice in one night. Plus, the quicker he went to sleep, the better. Because when he woke up, he could finally take a shower and get rid of that bird nest of a top of a head.
~~~
"So, tell me how long you've been having these dreams."
Andrew had been talking about his problem for the last thirty minutes, and this was the first time his psychologist asked him a question.
He looked up at the plain, blue ceiling. He wasn't sure why psychologists always made their patients lie down. Probably some trick. If it was meant to make you focus better, it obviously wasn't working, evident by the big, blinding light shining above him. It kind of reminded him of an interrogation. Not that he himself had been in one; he wasn't some praised-war hero like in all the movies that had gone through it all.
"I don't know," Andrew stated bluntly.
He saw his psychologist's (Mr. Brown was his name) brow furrow. That obviously was not the answer he was hoping for. He jotted something down in his note book, then lifted his head up again, facing Andrew. Brown was a stout fellow. Although not the most attractive or strong, he had a very weathered face, and knowledge in his eyes. Andrew wondered what he was before a psychologist. Maybe an adventurer?
"You explained you had.. strong emotions," stated Mr. Brown. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
"Well, just... emotions. Kind of like what I"m feeling right now. There's no other way to explain it.."
Mr. Brown adjusted his glasses and a hint of a smile fell upon his face. Probably happy to hear this appointment could be resolved so quickly. "We all feel emotion in dreams, Mr. Davis. I think--"
"Yes, but these emotions are different," interrupted Andrew. He figured he was being rude, but he had heard the same thing over and over again. Emotions in dreams are for everyone. He knows that. But these were different. "They feel... Real. And not like the Dream-Real, like I'm.. actually feeling them. I can't explain it."
Mr. Brown chuckled. "Well, then I guess you have a very unique future ahead of you, Mr. Davis."
"What do you mean?"
"These aren't dreams, Andrew. These are visions. And I think it's time you take them seriously."
For a good couple seconds, Andrew stood (well, laid) dumbfounded. Yes, they felt real, but they couldn't be.. real. Unless he was going to be killed by his brother as a horse. No, that couldn't be it. Maybe he explained something wrong, that was probably it. He heard that every little detail told to a psychologist needed to be completely true. Otherwise, the result would be wrong. Like a mathematical equation. Or a psychological equation?
"...Can I check those?" Andrew gestured toward Mr. Brown's notebook in his hand. He figured if he was doing his job correctly, he wrote down everything Andrew said. Maybe he could correct himself when he found the error.
Mr. Brown shrugged and handed his work notebook to Andrew. The latter scanned over the crudely-written-on pages. He found no error. Andrew looked up at Mr. Brown, then back down to the notebook. Another check wouldn't hurt.
"I understand it's hard to comprehend, but I'm sure it'll all make sense in due time." Mr. Brown stood up and offered his hand out to Andrew. He figured that meant the appointment was over. The young New Yorker sighed, and shook it, then stood up. "It was good working with you, Mr. Davis. Good luck," Mr. Brown said with a smile.
~~~
Andrew almost smiled as the FD-200 sniper rifle's recoil bucked his shoulder. He loved that familiar feeling, along with the ear deafening sound only the Chilean, semi-automtic, 7.62 caliber gun could produce. His shoulder and ear were both used to it. The target, a staggering 200 m. away, suffered a huge impact, and before Andrew could tell where he hit it, dust and dirt puffed up around it rapidly. Slowly, the brown gas around it dissipated, revealing a big, messy bullet hole at the center.
The small crowd behind him clapped steadily, some speaking quietly to the ones around them, a handful cheering. Andrew, although not a fan of attention, liked their reaction.
After the semi-worthless appointment to Mr. Brown, he decided to drive down to the shooting range to use his beloved firearm. As a veteran, he had the right to carry his weapon in his car. Plus, shooting cleared his mind. It made him feel at ease. Even though it was the most violent thing someone could legally do in his free time. Ironic. He was, in a way, famous, at the shooting range, known as one of the best snipers out there.
Also, it reminded him about his time in the Army. Most people would think being in the Army was a bad thing, traumatizing people about the inevitable violence. That was true, it was traumatizing, but it also taught him a lot. He learned there were things out there worth fighting for. Plus there was free food, and he took pride in his hard muscles and high stamina.
Andrew readied himself for another shot.
~~~
"You may think this is fake. Just a big, horrific, nightmare. You think you'll wake up in a couple minutes, drenched with sweat. But no. You don't wake up. You were never asleep.. Just like when your parents died. When *our** parents died. Let me let you sleep.. Forever.. Let me kill you, Andrew."*
Three knocks at the door woke Andrew, who was (like always) drenched in sweat. He had another nightmare.. Frustration burned in his chest.
"Twice in a row.. A new record," he muttered out loud. Three more knocks on the door, more urgent this time. The New Yorker stood up and rubbed his forehead. "I'm coming!" He quickly put on a shirt (a dark blue t-shirt), some black jeans, then rushed over to the door. When he opened it, Andrew was greeted by his little brother, Vandal.
Although just an inch below Andrew's height, his sibling was a good three years younger. Their features weren't similar at all; Andrew having long, slicked back, jet black hair and cyan eyes, along with a gentle stubble for a beard. He had a face resembling Bradley Cooper (which he was secretly a fan of, and was very pleased to know he looked a lot like his favorite actor), and Vandal, having dark brown hair and matching eyes, having a face that isn't recognizable as any celebrity, but was still good looking. They had that "brotherly look," which they couldn't really explain.
Andrew looked down at his little brother, which he discovered had an exhausted and sweaty face, and he was panting.
"Can't-talk-right-now, I'll--explain-on-the-way!" Huffed Vandal, exhaling the words at rapid speeds. "Get-your-shoes-on-and-meet-me-in-the-car! ASAP!" The last word left no room for argument as Vandal bolted off.
His younger sibling's mood caught Andrew off guard. They haven't seen each other for months, and Vandal didn't even say hi. Or better yet, Why hello there, Andrew! It's been quite some time. I understand you're having a rough time financially, so why don't we talk about it over some In-N'-Out Burger? He sighed, knowing this was not the case. He walked over to put on his shoes, then hoped that whatever this was, it was worth his brother's rude greeting.
