It’s the same dream again. I’m looking down at blood on my hands, blood smeared on clothes. My hands tremble as I try to decipher whose blood it is, but I can’t. It’s as if I have no memory—no recollection of who I am or where I’ve been—yet what I’m going through feels awfully familiar.
I peer up, surrounded by tall, lurking tress and a dense fog. I’m lost.
“Willow!” a man yells from a distance. “Willow, can ya hear me?”
This man sounds familiar—like he wants to help me. My heart beats faster, reacting to his voice. I try to scream—to call out to whomever he is, but I can’t.
I grab my throat but it’s wet and sticky. Pulling my hands back, I study them—more blood is on them now, wetter, thicker. It’s spilling from my throat. I’m bleeding…but why haven’t I died yet?
“Willow!” the familiar voice shouts again and I stagger to a stand, stepping on sticks and twigs that snap. A soggy leaf glues itself to my bare foot, and the air becomes cooler. I try to find the voice, but I don’t make it far.
Something grabs me from behind, its hands like ice, and I turn around to a figure in black. All I can see is their smile and the red eyes pointing upward at the edges like sharp crescents.
“Go to him,” the dark figure growls. “So he can die.”
