Chapter Text
'Vincent'
The night is always young when I fall asleep, but I always sober up too early. It’s on one of these nights that I found my eyes wandering through the corners of the ceiling again. Certain nights I would fight it. I’d close my eyes and picture a stream of water on the marshes near the rocks, with my hands held out onto the stream. Just the cold current against my skin, light winds brushing past my hair, warm grass around me. But the clicks of the air conditioner would drown out the sound of the river in my head. And then I’d open my eyes to the dark room again.
I tried to read a memoir before bed last week. I turned off my phone, made warm milk and put it on my bedside table. The other day a friend gave me candles and room fragrances for better sleep. Lavender and Indian sandalwood. Yesterday I bought Japanese incense from an antique shop and left it to burn until dawn. When I woke up, I kept coughing until the afternoon.
"It's not insomnia," the doctor told me during a check-up. Then what the fuck is it? At some point I started waking up in cold sweat with knots in my stomach. If it was lucid dreaming, I would've known. I can't quite wrap my finger around it. Whenever I wake up, I’d only have blurred motions rushing through my head. Nothing makes sense. Nothing. Just silence around me, my breathing heavy, my neck cold and my room getting smaller. But there’s one thing that sticks.
Orange hair.
I don’t need to look at his face or listen to his voice to know who it is. Whether there were beasts, ghosts, monsters, apocalypses, me dying, falling, or running through a twisted memory, there’d always be him. Streaks of bright orange and a sunny smile.
A sharp jab hammers in my head. The air conditioner clicks and whirrs, groaning along the silence. My shirt’s been collecting sweat for hours. I was murdered. Chased by Cerberus. I’m talking like, actual, mad, livid and hungry Cerberus. And then there were trees…
God. I’m left with nothing. Again.
But there’s ginger hair earlier. I always remember ginger hair. I still remember the warmth of it between my fingers. The sheen of his locks under the sun. His icy voice, raspy and tired, speaking distant words. My pillow is cold, reminding me that I am here, I am real, and I am miles away from the academy. But the warmth radiating from the core of my body reminds me of what had long passed.
My room door clicks open, a towering silhouette approaching. In the dark, glints of purple bounce off his eyes. Did our eyes meet just now? I pretend to sleep. A familiar warmth swarms from beside the bed, the figure crouching. It’s like he’s hovering over me. I open my eyes to strands of ginger and pools of purple tinted with fear.
But why?
What is scaring you?
What are we scared of?
Don’t back away. Tackle it head on with me. Come on. Show me who you really are, Beelzebub. I say, but in words of silence. The air is too quiet. Too cold to get the words out.
He climbs on the bed and props himself up on top of me. I watch as he brings his face closer, wrapping his fingers around my neck, the corner of his eyes crinkling. Is this your way of showing me? Is this what you are scared of? Then fucking do it.
Something sharp and cold creeps inside my chest, but it’s strange. There’s this sense of calm, a composure. I see. This is what you’re scared of. A hint of hesitance washes over his eyes, and he whispers, “Don’t look at me.”
I look into his eyes, and I find that fear is purple. And that it bears no answers. Just clues floating in his sea. Just pitch black taking over my eyes.
And then I woke up.