"My name is Owen. Yes, just Owen. No fancy surname like King or Smith. Just plain Owen." His voice, a soft chuckle, seemed to hang in the strange, blood-red sky that stretched endlessly above him. In its terrifying center, a crimson orb pulsed, making him feel watched, utterly exposed, as if even the count of every hair on his scalp was known to that searing eye.
He chuckled again, a dry, humorless sound, before turning his gaze away from the unnerving light. He looked at nothing in particular, just away from that… whatever it was. What was I on about again? he mused to himself, the thought distant, echoing in the vast expanse.
"Ah. Heh. Back to whoever's wondering: I was abandoned. Like, poof! Abracadabra, and I was just… disposed of. In some dumpster. In some dark alley."
A vast, churning dust cloud appeared on the horizon, rapidly gathering energy, swirling like a tropical cyclone. It bore down on him with terrifying speed, yet Owen remained outwardly calm, merely scratching the back of his head. It seemed like a daily occurrence here.
"How do I know this?" he continued, his voice strangely flat, detached. "Well, that's what my adoptive family tells me. Not 'tells' so much as... punches into my face. Literally. Two or more broken ribs, give or take. Fractured bones here and there." He sighed, a loud, weary sound. "A lot of shouting. That I'm a mistake, that I should have been left… well, you know the rest. Hmm, what else? Oh, and a bunch of objects that seem oddly attracted to my… malnourished body."
He glanced down at his arm, seeing a body that in this strange place looked anything but malnourished. It was lean, well-defined, not buffed, but capable. His skin was pale, his eyes a steady brown, and his hair, black as night, fell across his forehead.
"Yeah, and very ugly," he murmured, a self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. "At least, that's what I hear every single day."
The wind began to howl, picking up strength as the dust cloud surged closer, a roaring wall of crimson-tinged grit. It was six feet away now, its roar deafening. Suddenly, in the blood-red sky, the crimson orb blinked. And in that instant, Owen was engulfed, swallowed whole by the raging storm. He screamed, a raw, primal sound torn from his lungs.
Then, boom.
In a dark room...
A boy suddenly jolted upright, a strangled scream tearing from his throat. His hand shot up, clamping over his mouth, stifling the sound before it could fully escape. He sat there, trembling, for an hour and a quarter, trying to calm the frantic thumping in his chest. Mentally, he might have been prepared for the nightmare, but his body never was.
"Haa... haa... God, not this bullshit again," he breathed heavily, pressing a shaky palm against his chest, specifically where his heart was, feeling it pump blood crazily, a frantic drum against his ribs.
He looked around the room, which could barely be called a bedroom. It resembled an abandoned house, its once vibrant charm faded into a haunting stillness. Dust settled thickly on every surface, and the air carried a musty scent that hinted at years of neglect. The walls were painted in peeling, muted tones, with patches of wallpaper hanging loosely, revealing the underlying plaster. A cracked window let in slivers of dim, early morning light, casting eerie shadows across the room.
His bed, a double, its mattress sunken and sagging, was covered with a stained but once colorful quilt. The bedframe looked warped and splintered, a testament to its age. Torn sheets lay crumpled on the floor, as if hastily discarded. Beside the bed, a clock stood frozen at 5:15 AM, and a few yellowed books, their pages dog-eared and brittle, lay forgotten. Inside a shabby-looking wardrobe, faded clothes hung limp, moth-eaten and forlorn. A scattered collection of shoes lay haphazardly under the bed, collecting dust like forgotten memories. An unsettling silence filled the room, broken only by Owen's ragged, shuddering breaths.
It took him another thirty minutes to properly calm down. He looked at his own reflection in the dim light – his thin, malnourished body. A stark contrast to the buff dream-self, where a red flame intertwined with black had been embedded in his right arm, covering it like an intricate tattoo, an Eastern dragon on fire.
There, it had seemed to be consuming something within him, perhaps all his negative thoughts and feelings, leaving him calm.
"Well, not like it was real, I guess," he sighed deeply, the phantom feeling of power already fading.
He pushed himself up slowly from the bed, his actual body shaking from time to time as if he couldn't handle his own weight. He wore black and blue boxers, which seemed particularly large for his slight frame. He didn't waste time, moving towards his bedroom door. And once he opened it, there was a clear, jarring difference between the inside and outside of the room. Everything outside screamed rich—not the kind of rich that could buy the Crown of England, but the kind that subtly boasted, I'm living my best life.
The moment he stepped out, he heard a click to his right. That was where his step-sister's room was, ten meters away from his. He didn't even look to the side; he just went back in and gently closed his door, as if he didn't exist at all.
He sat down with his back against the wall, his knees cradled close, almost as if they were one with his upper body. Owen's body started shaking uncontrollably.
"I'm not here... I'm not here... I'm not here..."
He completely lost himself, repeating the same words over and over, a broken mantra, like a mockingbird caught in a loop.
"Oi! You ugly thing! Get out of that mental health room you call home right this instant!"