Yes, I'm looking at you.
No, I can't see you.
Maybe it's because none of us are quite real. Or maybe it's because only I am.
Maybe it's all one fearsome nightmare, bleeding all shades of red and blue and violet. The extra life in his eyes, the sense of self he was always missing - it's there. His body is slumped with grief, but he seems taller somehow. He feels whole in a way no one ever truly does.
What are these tricks, then?
The meaning of lucid is sane. When one dreams and does not know it, one is not lucid. One is not...sane. Maybe I'm dreaming then. I'm dreaming my own death - his death. Yours.
What is this insanity? These dreams none of us can wake from. The nightmares that have us all trapped in the floorboards, smelling hell's flames below but not quite ready to fall yet. Because when we fall, we'll all just wake up, won't we?
Unless the dream isn't one and the nightmare actually is. IF it really is your little brother on your front lawn with huge slate eyes that can't see anything anymore. because maybe that experiment of yours has discovered it's got some fangs after all... And maybe instead of killing you he killed your shadow instead.
And let's suppose your shadow was your soul, your better half. Where would you be then?
Dead? Lost? Destroyed?
Reborn.
But you couldn't have done it alone, because no one can kill his own soul.
So now you're seeing thing and hearing things and I belong to you or you belong to me if you believe in the sort of thing you swore could never exist.
Which leaves one to wonder who is speaking when all of them are out there, crying over the crumpled body of a black-haired boy. Because, who would think someone as perfectly demented as us could use the touch of grace?
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