Page 119 of Somno Slave

His eyes search mine so intensely it almost hurts to hold his gaze. Wide. Desperate in a way I’ve never seen before. And for one brief, terrible second, moisture gathers there. His expression tightens around it immediately like he hates the weakness of it, but I still see it.

Tears.

“I don’t care about dying,” he says quietly. “I care about being misunderstood.”

Something twists painfully beneath my ribs.

“You’re the only one who can help me.” His voice drops lower now, roughened slightly around the edges. Strained. “Please.”

“Help you?” I rasp. “I can’t help you. You won’t even speak to us!”

“I can show you the truth.” His thumb shifts to my throat.

“How? I don’t even want—"

“Don’t lie, Doctor.” His voice cuts through me like a blade. “Stop lying. I know you need to know more. I know you will understand me.”

He searches mine for an answer. I soften. I really try not to, but I do. My breath catches on the exhale and it betrays me.

“Close your eyes. I’ll show you what really happened to me.” He whispers.

“What do you—”

I barely get the words out before his hand settles over my face.

I flinch hard beneath it, but the movement never finishes properly. The room bends strangely around me instead, the mattress seeming to tilt beneath my body as a heavy pressure drags through my head. My stomach drops sharply. Blood rushes loud through my ears, thick enough to drown the roombeneath it, while something cold unravels slowly behind my eyes.

I stumble, body half crumpling over as my arms windmill fast to keep me upright. I snap backwards, catching myself just at the last minute, and tear my gaze around.

I am alone. It’s the first thing I register. Not the cold, nor the stench of damp earth and straw, but the isolation, a vast green land with clusters of dandelions and stinging nettles dotted around.

The ground trembles, a low growl, as though it’s alive, and then things start moving.

A small hut falls like someone has tossed it from the sky, landing squat. The walls are uneven, roof heavy with thatch and straw spills from the doorway in untidy clumps. I can’t shake the scent of wood sap and smoke staining the back of my throat. It smells old, of sickness, even in spite of the large, leafy forest sprouting from the ground. The trees stretch their branches up and out, smacking into one another as they grow, curling around other trees like spindly fingers pushing and shoving.

I stagger backwards, breath caught in the back of my throat.

I notice almost immediately that this hut is old, too rough and too-lived in. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

And then, there he is.

Deogal.

But I recognise immediately that something is off. It’s not him in the way I know him. It’s not the man behind the glass, not the one who finds me when I sleep.

This one is younger, his arms are smaller like he hasn’t filled out his body properly yet. His hair is shaggy and unkempt, and it looks as though it hasn’t been brushed in months. His hands are bare, red-knuckled, gripping an axe that bites into a log with brutal precision.

Thud.

The sound vibrates through my bones.

I take a step forward without thinking.

He doesn’t even notice me. He brushes past, with his log, dropping it in a wicker basket. He’s close enough for the heat of his sweating body to touch mine, but he’s totally oblivious. And I can’t help the ridiculous feeling of loss curling in my stomach.

“What am I doing here?” I whisper as though something might answer back. The wind cuts through, thick and cold, dragging across my skin until it seeps deeper, forcing my arms tight around myself in a useless attempt to hold onto what little warmth I have left.

I turn, watching him return to the chopping block, the wooden axe handle resting on his shoulder. He tosses a log onto the block, his movements automatic and practiced, like routine bleeds into his bones. He lifts the axe, aims, and starts his swing.