And So It Begins [9/15/2017]
Sep. 11th, 2017 12:54 pmIt didn't feel like any ordinary dream.
That wasn't saying much when the dreamer in question was Ronan Lynch, but even for him, it didn't feel ordinary. Just how seemed impossible to quantify, but Ronan could feel it in the shudder of the wind against his skin, the hint of a whisper down his spine, the flicker of wings in his peripheral vision.
There was something lingering at the edges. A presence. Calling to him. Pleading.
He wasn't dreaming with purpose this time, his sleep largely dreamless and much easier to come by in the past several months with all his closest friends nearby and his mother only two doors down. There are no Terrors. Haven't been for months. Was this one now? When Ronan slept these days it was for hours on end, as though his body was trying to make up for years and years without.
But not tonight.
He woke slowly, in fits in starts that were far too familiar. A wisp of white fluttered across his eyes and a sinking dread hung in his chest as he blinked his eyes open. He was stuck in place, fingers twitching, gripping at nothing and, for a moment, he couldn't breathe.
And then he could.
He hadn't brought anything out with him, or at least nothing he could see. But the shiver in his room hadn't faded.
Frowning, Ronan checked the clock -- 6:21. The sun was peeking over the horizon already. He rubbed his eyes and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The door to his mother's room was still closed as he passed and Ronan quietly jogged down the stairs in only his boxers and muscle shirt, slipping into a pair of flip-flops that may or may not have been his own before stepping out into the crisp morning.
The chickens greeted him with quiet clucks as Ronan carried in the pail of bird feed. Hercules stumbled over on graceless legs while Cinnamon only blinked at him from near the fence.
Ronan sprinkled the ground with a handful of seed, still unable to shake the vestiges of the dream.
That wasn't saying much when the dreamer in question was Ronan Lynch, but even for him, it didn't feel ordinary. Just how seemed impossible to quantify, but Ronan could feel it in the shudder of the wind against his skin, the hint of a whisper down his spine, the flicker of wings in his peripheral vision.
There was something lingering at the edges. A presence. Calling to him. Pleading.
He wasn't dreaming with purpose this time, his sleep largely dreamless and much easier to come by in the past several months with all his closest friends nearby and his mother only two doors down. There are no Terrors. Haven't been for months. Was this one now? When Ronan slept these days it was for hours on end, as though his body was trying to make up for years and years without.
But not tonight.
He woke slowly, in fits in starts that were far too familiar. A wisp of white fluttered across his eyes and a sinking dread hung in his chest as he blinked his eyes open. He was stuck in place, fingers twitching, gripping at nothing and, for a moment, he couldn't breathe.
And then he could.
He hadn't brought anything out with him, or at least nothing he could see. But the shiver in his room hadn't faded.
Frowning, Ronan checked the clock -- 6:21. The sun was peeking over the horizon already. He rubbed his eyes and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The door to his mother's room was still closed as he passed and Ronan quietly jogged down the stairs in only his boxers and muscle shirt, slipping into a pair of flip-flops that may or may not have been his own before stepping out into the crisp morning.
The chickens greeted him with quiet clucks as Ronan carried in the pail of bird feed. Hercules stumbled over on graceless legs while Cinnamon only blinked at him from near the fence.
Ronan sprinkled the ground with a handful of seed, still unable to shake the vestiges of the dream.
