Grazing The Sky

Lance didn't realize he was through the doorway until he had already stepped into the darkness. Part of him knew he was dreaming—that loose airy feeling was clouding the top of his head, where his thoughts used to be. And part of him was lost in the current moment, taking this reality as absolute truth. Because who *wouldn't* be at least a little bit scared stepping into a room with no visible walls or flooring, slowly moving towards a spotlight in the center of this flat void?

His fear only lasted for a few moments, quickly overtaken by the fact that he had to keep moving. There was something in the center of that spotlight, wrapped in a bundle of sky blue cloth. Shaped like a baby, almost. Lance knew he needed to move towards it, keep moving no matter what. An existence—not just his own, but another's as well—depended on it. So, he moved.

It was slow progress—at times, incredibly painful. His feet felt like they'd been placed inside cement blocks, forcing a massive pain to both legs as he continued dragging himself forward. Getting closer to whatever that object wrapped in blue was.

The weights left him as he neared the spotlight, causing a stumble he quickly recovered from. His shoe rested at the edge of the light, never breaking the perfect circle it cast. Lance kept staring at the bundle of cloth, and at the same moment the d.e.s.i.r.e to step forward came to mind, he was suddenly in the center of the circle, the object gone.

He looked up, not being blinded by the light shining down on him. He felt something against his skin—not air, but an energy. Orange-red; that's the color that came to mind. This energy moved around him, gently traveling down his neck before parting to swirl around his shoulders, down his arms. With this warmth curling around the tips of his fingers, Lance closed his eyes, listening to the energy, feeling it pulse with the beat of his own blood. The brightness above him increased, heating up his skin.

Pressure came to his tailbone; a tingling feeling that felt like he had an itch. But then his spine moved, the small tail poking against the inside of his skin. The point suddenly broke through, taking the rest of his spine with it. Lance dropped to all fours, his back deflating as his tail-spine thrashed about, flinging blood out into the open air. What was happening? What in the *hell* was happening?

*Welcome to the new you,* a voice said, speaking in both his mind and beside his ear.

He stayed on the floor, struggling for composure as the light above him heated until his skin burnt. That energy came forth, c.a.r.e.s.sing his face as his eyes shut tighter, trying to block everything out.

*Just escape,* he told himself. *Just don't let anything in.*

The light shattered and his body jerked upright, the springs of his bed echoing below him. The silence of his room grew a little clearer, a little louder but Lance could still hear the fading sound of the spotlight exploding.

*Another nightmare.*

He fell back, head hitting the pillow once again. Sweat had soaked through, and he could feel more along the mattress below him, the sheets above. He kept breathing, currently not caring about the hygiene. He just focused on moving his lungs, calming the rapid pace of his heart.

He thought of a beat—four-four. Slow enough. The counts repeated in his mind, foot unconsciously tapping along.

He breathed again, letting the air out of his mouth. Keep repeating, he told himself. Just keep counting.

*One, two, three, four...*

His heart was slowing down, matching the pace his mind was setting. He pulled in another breath, forcing himself to hold it for a measure before letting it out. When he did, his heart had slowed enough to match every other count. He kept breathing, foot keeping the pace as he thought back.

This nightmare had been haunting him for the past two weeks, and still he didn't understand any of it. It wasn't the average dream, either. In the beginning, part of him felt lucid and then, suddenly, things would shift as though all of him was completely taken by that world. Like it was perfectly normal to be headed across an endless void, walking towards a spotlight where some bundle of cloth was waiting for him to not pick it up.

He ran his fingers through his hair, palm pressing against his forehead. He opened his eyes, his palm covering half of his vision, blocking out the view of his ceiling. The spotlight part he could understand, being a musician. But the blue cloth, that weird energy, the tail? He didn't have a clue.

Lance sat up, feeling his arms ache at the movement. He moved his legs, trying to slide the sheets off with minimal effort. It didn't work, forcing him to move his hands and pick the sheets off. Even that hurt to do; he could feel the soreness in the bones of his fingers this time.

It was strange. Normally he wasn't this sore, but maybe all these nights were starting to catch up with him. The performance his band gave tonight was probably beginning to take its toll, too.

He leaned forward, moving his arms just enough to pull the shirt off his back. The damp fabric clung to his skin, protesting for a moment. Then the cloth gave way, allowing him to weakly slip the shirt over his head, slide his arms out one by one.

He dragged the shirt to the edge of his bed, letting the wet fabric slip from his fingertips and onto the floor. Lance yawned a little, stretching his eyes wider for a moment. It felt like he'd barely gotten any sleep—what time was it?

Leaning back to retrieve his phone from the small nightstand, he squinted past the brightness of his screen—3:33am. He'd only been home and asleep for about two hours.

Lance looked down, seeing a few notifications displayed below the time. A few late-night texts and a calendar notification—*440 days until "Move Out".*

He sighed. 440 days was way too long of a wait.

A movement of his finger shut the screen off again, the brightness leaving behind a parade of dancing colors. Lance tried to blink past them as he set his phone down, habit drawing his stare to the wall opposite of him. He froze for a second when he saw his guitar was no longer there, but then he remembered; he'd set the guitar by the door of his room when he stumbled in, too exhausted to put it in the usual spot. Safely in the gig bag. Everything was fine.

The colors created by the brightness of his phone began to finally fade away, and when one of them remained, Lance looked to the red dot shining across the room. The light of his practice amp was still on, which was strange. He had played for a bit the night before, after he couldn't fall back asleep, but it was practically a reflex for him to turn the amp off after he was done. He stared at the light.

*Why are you still on?*

His mind dismissed the question after a moment's thought, palm rising to rub the corner of his eye as he stood up, feeling his legs protest. The aches from the dreams weren't anything new, but the pain from the show they'd finished playing a handful of hours ago was definitely beginning to settle in. He'd have trouble walking tomorrow morning, he was sure of it.

He leaned down, switching off the amp. The click of his speakers reverberated into the silence, something about the sound calming Lance a bit more. He straightened, suddenly feeling fatigued. More so than usual. He turned around, dragging his feet back to bed.

*"Wait."*

Lance froze, hand still positioned at his hair. That wasn't someone's voice he'd just heard, was it?

*"I know this is gonna sound crazy but you need to get out of there."*

Frantically, he turned around, searching for the voice. But the walls were way too dark; he couldn't see anything.

*"There's someone very dangerous coming for you, and if they find you, it's not going to be good—for either of us."*

He clicked on his lamp. Light flooded into the room, and quickly his eyes began sweeping the walls, the floor, the ceiling. No recorder, no wires trying to hide anywhere. Nothing. And as he looked around, he couldn't pin-point the location of the voice, either.

It spoke again, seeming to be coming from every direction at once.

*"Sorry for freaking you out like this. I wish I could help in some other way, but this is all I can do for now. I'm pretty short on time, too..."*

Lance waited, trying hard to think passed all the panic. Counting was out of the question to calm himself down.

*"If you see this face, run."*

His vision was overtaken by an image. A face. Narrow, oval-shaped, with yellow eyes and blue hair. The ears were pointed as well—severely sharp.

The sight faded, flashing for a few moments as Lance stared at his bright room again. The time he had spent calming himself before was totally wasted; he felt like he'd had that nightmare all over again.

"This isn't real," he said to himself. His head moved, shaking from side to side and feeling the muscles in his neck ache. "This isn't real..."

*"Remember what I said about getting out."*

Lance looked up. The voice had faded, but the strange presence it had created still lingered. He tried to breathe, focusing on moving his lungs. He brought his hands to the back of his neck, interlocking his fingers as he looked down, focusing on the pressure. He wasn't crazy... There had to be a viable reason for this; voices just don't come out of nowhere.

*Unless you're f.u.c.k.i.n.g* crazy.

He ignored the thought, looking around again. But he could easily see everything in his room—there wasn't any place for anything or anyone to be hiding.

A chill shot down his back at the thought of someone watching him sleep. He fought back the idea, shaking his head again. This was just some kind of prank. Someone set up a recorder and broke into his house—

God dammit. He needed to *focus.* This was just getting *way* too weird...

He looked up and searched his room once more, walking around this time. Nothing under the bed, as childish as it was too even look... And nothing in the closet, either. He rested his head against the closet's entrance, one hand still on the mirror door. He pushed the door away, hearing it slide and gently bang against the other wall. At least he knew the source of that noise...

His eyes opened. For a long time, he stared at the darkness of the closet's wall, thinking. Hearing that voice repeat inside his head, playing the memory again.

*"You've got someone coming for you."*

*"Sorry for freaking you out like this."*

Lance closed his eyes, a headache forming. So, what, in addition to possibly being a figment of his imagination, this thing had a conscience too?

He didn't understand any of this. He didn't know if he would ever be able to figure it out.

Going crazy was beginning to look very much like a possibility.