Day 7

we became pyromaniacs in the night...

January 16, 2012 �" Day 7

    Last night I had a dream again. It was the same as the other one, except for slight differences. The tree was the same, the leaves, the trunk, the branches, the location. The breeze and the music were the same, although it seemed more foreboding than before. The stars looked dull, as if they were dying. The moon winked at me still. Though it winked with a more threatening, secretive, knowing way rather than the flirty way it had last night. A new poem had been written in what looked like fresh blood, as the letters dripped down the trunk. It was a simple passage.

She paints a pretty picture,
But this story has a twist;
Her paintbrush is a knife,
And her canvas is her wrist.

    In my dream, I tried as hard as I could to figure out who was beneath the ominous tree. But the light was dim and it was hard to see.
    As soon as I woke up I jumped up and ran through the jungle. Sensing that something was wrong, Patrick dashed after me. Together we crashed though the jungle, feet pounding, hearts racing, leaves rustling. We drew to a heaving stop before the naked tree. It was Emma. She lay on the ground, her arms slit to the bone from her wrist to just below the inside of her elbow. The blood was thick, black and clotted. She lay sprawled, shadows casting an eerie look on her. Emma had painted a pretty picture, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever known, inside and out.
    Again the poem confused and scared me. My friend and I had been alone that night at summer camp. She had written it in my notebook, never saying a word of it out loud. What sort of island was this? It stole your memories and played tricks on your mind.
    After burying her we made our way back to camp, where we found those strange indention marks all over our campsite again. It was disconcerting, this island. Would we ever escape its grasp and return to the normal routines of life? Normal. What was normal anyway.
    That night we all grieved for the loss. The loss for our classmates, our friends. We followed Nate’s lead and became pyromaniacs in the night we tore down branches and piled up leaves even as Nate stirred up the fire. In the dark of the night with the moon squinting suspiciously at us the fire crackled and roared. A living, greedy thing we strove to feed. The flames leaped and soared, towering over us by 20 feet. The heat was a horrible thing. It sucked the moisture out of you, leaving you dry and coughing. Only Nate, the true pyromaniac, could bear it all, jumping in to pop some word here, a branch there. The fire roared its appoval, clapping and sending sparks skyward, threatening to singe the moon and go through the star-holes and burn heaven.
    This was an awesomely terrible, powerful thing. I feared it yet was drawn to the power emanating from it. The last thing I remember seeing was Nate standing in front of me before the fire, his arms outstretched, his head tilted to the sky, welcoming the fire. Then I was gone.

Reviews

[L. Catherine]

Very foreboding chapter and very sad. I was just thinking to myself, "Is there going to be another prophetic dream sequence?" and what do you know, it happens again! I'm pumped for the next chapter; keep up the good work BoomBox! :)

[The Violent Wolf]

tnx haha

[L. Catherine]

Welcome!!!