Imran Abbas As Jovon Phim III.

Jovon woke up gasping and choking. He threw the covers off,feeling as though his shoulders and back were on fire. He stumbled to the window and jerked it open.

The cool air from the Lake Washington night wafted into the room,easing some of his panic and soothing his hot shoulders and back. He braced himself against the window frame,breathing in the chill for a moment,as grateful as if he'd just been saved from drowning.

There was no more burned flesh there,nothing but scars now. But the internal scars from that day,the smell of flesh burning, were still fresh and oozing.

Jovon squeezed his eyes tightly together,trying to block out Americus' beautiful eyes fixed in death.

The memory was still as fresh as it had been two years ago. It haunted him. Pursued him. Stalking. Accosting. No matter how hard he tried to block it out,he couldn't escape. He relieved that horrible experience within the recess of his mind like a cruelly conducted interrogation.

At least he was alive,but that meant living with the memory. Guilt assaulted him waking and sleeping. The fire rescue team had gotten to him on time.

He looked at his bedside clock; the illuminated numbers read 4:00 am.

Unable to go back to sleep,Jovon sank down to the floor near the open window and breathed in deep of the salt-scented cool air that drifted across his face.

After a moment of deep breathing,the night called to him and he reached for his running gear. He ran from the nightmares. He ran just to feel in control again,but the fear was always there,just few steps behind.

He made his way along the steep path overlooking a still-slumbering 'Gold Coast' or Mercer Island as it was popularly known. His back and shoulders felt tight. The burns were a permanent reminder of the fire that had damaged her flesh.

His breathing hitched. Such a simple act - breathing in and breathing out. Until you couldn't; until your breath was strained and the oxygen replaced by toxic chemicals that sucked the life from you in a slow,helpless suffocation.

His sneakers slapped against asphalt as he neared the apex of the trail. It opened up,widening into a path that wound back down the crockscrew pass. At the top,he stopped,as he always did,and looked down at the city nestled on either side via bridges carrying the the I-90; The Lacey V. Murrow memorial bridge and the parallel,Homer M. Hadley memorial bridges.

The sun was just starting to rise,streetlights winked off and traffic flowed on the I-90. His breathing slower and leveled out. Sweat ran in rivulets down his back and arms. He swiped at his forehead with the hem of his black vest as the sweat stung his eyes.

As the sun rose in the east,it bathed the city of about twenty-two thousand,seven hundred citizens in soft,rosy glow,accentuating the white-tiled roofs. It danced over the lake,making it look like a liquid fire.

The edge of the Aubrey Davis park- a seventy-seven-acres land that is atop the I-90 tunnel entrances-was only a couple of blocks away.

Was that a plume of smoke in the distance? His breath stumbled into nothing and held. Did it curl up into the sky with a deadly intent?

His breathing increased, but it wasn't the steady breathing of a good,healthy run. He knew,even before he tried to stop it that he was hyperventilating.

Jovon turned away and ran at a breakneck speed down the steep slope,his senses on full alert,his heart pounding like a deer caught in headlights. At the bottom,he tripped and lost his footing,falling to the ground with a hard thump,scraping his knee and the palms of his hands as he braced for impact.

For a moment,he laid in the dirt and let the panic wash over him. Finally,he summoned enough control to push it away,push it someplace else. Slowly,he pushed himself back up and brushed himself off.

He looked once again to the place where he thought he had seen the smoke and realized that there wasn't anything there. No fire.

Then a camera flash went off,blinding him momentarily. Jovon saw the reporter before the man had the chance to dive for cover.

His amour slipped into place and his hazel eyes turned so cold that they could freeze hell over.

That man just made a mistake.

* * *

Back at his house,he took his shower as usual, ignoring the roughness of his skin where it met the sloping line of his shoulders. He trued to shrug off the dream that replayed the reality of that day.

After exiting the shower,he wrapped a towel around his waist and walked into his bedroom,the same time his cell phone began to ring. His heart skipped a beat for a moment,before he forced his legs to go over to where it lay on the bedside table. Scowling at the air,he swiped his thumb across the large screen.

"Mr Phim?" A man's voice from the other end of his line.

"Who wants to know?"

"This is Tim Dawson of the Gold Coast News. I was told you called in earlier with a compliant."

"I caught one of your reporters, Philip Garreth, stalking me on my run this morning. He even went as far as taking a picture and I'm warning you now. If I see any of my pictures online or in this morning papers,I'll sue Gold Coast Newspaper for damages and would make sure it close down."

Tim cleared his throat. "Of course,Sir. I know how much you value your privacy and I assure you that that picture won't be put up. I'll also have a word with my reporters."

"See that you do." He disconnected the call,tossed the phone on his bed carelessly before walking over to stand in front of the double French doors,overlooking the lake Washington, that opened up to a large deck with chairs and tables beside a large pool.

He'd just have to visit his therapist again as much as he disliked the man. The nightmares were more frequent than before.

And that was not a good sign.

Sorry for short chapter. I promise that the next one would be longer.

As for the schedule update,: I will be updating once in two weeks and it will be mostly on Sundays. But if I have free time,I might update twice or even before scheduled time.

So until then,well. Ciao.