There are always two parts to that ever-repeating dream. In the first half of the slumber, there is always a man with shock-white hair, his slender fingers wrapped around a foot-long blade. I'm never in fear when this part happens. I always feel safe and relaxed. He unsheathes the sword, directs my hands around the handle, and teaches me how to use it. Although this nightmare had repeated exactly the same way every month, this fraction was never the same. I always learned something new. I always mastered something new. Soon, the man with the white hair vanishes. He leaves me in the room with another blade, much smaller, only a few inches in length. A knife. The next part is never remembered completely. I look up at the shadowy woman across the room. She is slick, laughing, holding another weapon in her hand that looks vaguely like the shadow of a hammer. The next moments pass in a blur, and then we are both lying on the ground in a puddle of something thick and wet, warm but cooling. My knife is slipped inside of her eye, although I can not see in the darkness where I have wounded her. The back of her hammer is in my arm. My pain is numb compared to the overwhelming fear and guilt that flood my senses, and I look down at my victim. In the window of the room, a flash of light etches across the blinds where a car is rushing down the street. And for a mere second, I can see her face. She is always dead, thin lips gaping, green eyes glazed over. There is no mistaking who she is.

My mother.

I woke on the darkest hours of the day, as I always do. Through my window that lacked both curtains and blinds, the first strands of violet-blue light lifted up from the horizon; the presence of light only made the rest of the world appear darker. Like midnight ink spilled onto a canvas of shadows, my room could hardly be seen. The polite glow of the white walls spilled a partially-visible ring around my room. There were certain familiar things I could see. The dream catcher by my door, spotted feathers hanging down on brown threads, strung by aqua beads; my bedsheets made to look like static in design; the lengthy, knotted curls of my blonde locks against my pillow.

Tiredness tied itself against my eyes as I adjusted them in the darkness. My heart beat at a panicked pace, making my body shudder at every change in pulse. It didn't matter how many times I dreamed of killing my mother, I was always afraid and confused afterward. Most times, I thought the dream had become reality - my body was thick with hot sweat, feeling as sticky and sodden as the blood felt in the dream. I usually awoke clamping something hard in the midst of my fear, which I mistook for the mirage handle of a knife. The current night, however, was very different. I knew truth from fiction, if there ever was a difference. I immediately knew I was in my room, unharmed. And more importantly, my mother was as safe as I was.

As if my phone had emitted a cosmic power to alert others of when I was awake, my ringtone let off a faint text tone, which was obviously the beginning tune to a Metallica song. My phone, a type older than the one everyone else owned but could still hold apps, was lit up on top of my dresser, which was hardly an inch away from my bed. Etching my shadowy limb over my head, I grabbed my phone. Then, I discovered a fact that any other adolescent my age would have moaned in remorse at: it was a Monday.

I felt thankful that that was the worst of my problems.

The message, which, due to my period of time ignoring it shifted into a call, was from my closest friend, Mary Clarkson. In the middle of reviewing tips for acting, her childish grin sprung up into my view. I took a second to observe the pale, perfect face of the girl on my screen. Her locks were as dark as the feathers on a raven, and as equally curly as mine. Her bright green eyes were lit dimly with excitement. Her pale lips were drawn into a grin cornered by dimples. Reluctantly, I tapped the "answer call" button. I hated calling people; too much talking, not enough privacy.

"Hey, Emma," came Mary's voice, low and soft. "I wanted to call to... Sorry, did I wake you?"

"No," I said. "I had that nightmare again. It traumatized me before you could tire me out with lack of sleep, sorry."

My best friend seemed to ignore me. "I was just informed that there's a play tomorrow."

Those were my worries. School, friends, dramas, which were in plays rather than my life. I had no concern on which days were my last, unlike some people. I didn't have to worry about wars, or sickness. I was as normal as everyone else, but much less ignorant. Some may have called me horrible, but I felt as if the rest of the world was none of my concern. After all, the universe will learn its lesson when it's too fucked-up to go on.

I sat up in bed, interested. "I'm listening, Mary. What's the play?"

"Take a guess. It's Romeo and Juliet. Obviously, you have to be Juliet. But here's the twist! When Romeo tries to kiss you, stab him in the face!" Her smoky voice crackled a bit from my less-than-average phone service (which was always my comeback for Mary's "the government is listening in on your phone conversation" jokes; obviously, they couldn't listen in when my call kept dropping). "Kissing is overrated. I can't believe the teachers. 'Please make out for us, and we'll call it an act!' Pssh, what perverts."

"Especially the gym teacher," I agreed softly, keeping my voice low enough so that my mother would stay sleeping. "Telling us to bend over and do obscene gestures..."

"And the English teacher. Telling us to read," Mary said.

"How is that dirty?"

"I dunno. Some people are really weird when it comes to that stuff."

I placed the phone on speaker, a risk I was willing to take to be able to get dressed and speak to my friend at the same. I pushed myself off of the bed and sauntered over to my closet, pulled the door open lazily, and skimmed my eyes over my vast collection of shirts without really looking at them. "You think I'll make a good Juliet?" I asked over my shoulder, in the direction of my phone.

"You'll make the best Juliet. And you know what?"

I pulled out a short-sleeved black t-shirt with a slight dip in the neck, barely glancing at it. All I had looked the same to me, all in shades of gray and not too showy nor frilly. I began pulling my checkered pajama shirt over my head and threw it to the clutter in my floor. "What is it, Mary?"

"I'll even see you act! Aromantic me, who hates this work of Shakespeare with a fiery passion, will go watch you make out with a guy and act all confused-like." Her laughter crackled with static through the phone. "Before it even happens, I'll record you reading your lines and sell it to the English teacher! But seriously, you'll make a fine Juliet. It isn't as if you haven't memorized all the words in private for preparation of this day."

I slipped the black t-shirt on over my bra, then stumbled over to my drawer where my variety of pants lay in wait. "I'm not that obsessed with acting, Mary." Although I was being defensive, my tone was cool, emotionless. "I mean, I have some memorized... And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I... But that's normal, isn't it?"

"No, my friend, it isn't!" Mary's laughter, as it always did, crackled. "And it isn't impressive if that's all you know."

I slipped on a pair of black leggings. By now, the skyward bits of dawn light woven into the sky had crawled at a quickened pace towards my home. I could see better, but all was still dark. "That isn't all I have, but if you want to listen to it all, it may take quite a while."

"And you aren't obsessed?" she asked, question taking on a sarcastic tone.

"No. I like Hamlet better."

For a moment, my best friend, my soul sister, breathed gently into the phone, saying nothing but a lagging ellipsis. I finished dressing, followed by socks, shoes, deodorant, and fixing my long, curly hair. Then, I sat on the bed with the phone beside me. My slow huff of breath gradually churned into sync with hers, which, through the phone, was a few seconds behind of what it really was. Through sound, our lungs moved as one, as if we were breathing through the same organs. As if we were the same human being. It was the uncommon moments like these where Mary erased my doubts and left nothing was throughout adoration for her, our friendship, and our unity.

Finally, I broke the moment. "I'm going to go make my family breakfast. Bye."

"See ya, Sis!" Then, she was the first to click the "end call" button. Her face flashed across the screen, followed by the words: Call Ended. Before long, I was staring at my wallpaper, which was a sassy photoshop of James Hetfield.

I sighed, already heading out of my room and into the fridge to get eggs for scrambling. "Every day this happens, Sister. When is it gonna change? We talk, we dress, we get to school... The plainness of everyday life is killing me."

***

As every other day in the half-lived school semester had prophesied, Mary Clarkson and I entered Millton High School together, already too deep in conversation to be pulled out by our surroundings. Nonetheless, even the most inattentive kid in our grade couldn't help but notice the mainstream details. A locker or two had a violent message scrawled across it, a couple lockers more had embarrassing images spray painted on them. Some identifiable kids around our age, sixteen at most and fourteen at least, stood in the halls pointlessly. Some kissed, some bullied a "lesser" classmate. It both made me sick and comforted me. These were the worries every single one of us was occupied with. Only years away from a freedom that had more downs than ups, and we didn't even attempt to care. Our troubles and strife only originated from love, friendship, and family problems. No one had to go to war yet, no one had to sell their entire lives away for family yet... And yet, the fact false loves and fake friends were the only things they cared for sickened me.

A boy bumped me in the hallway, jutting his shoulder into the side of my flat breasts. I screeched, flinging my backpack onto the marble floor below us both. The boy turned to glare at me with rich, violet eyes. His mouth was set in a grim line. By this point in the year, I could identify those strange irises of his from anywhere.

"Dammit, Dillan Raking," I growled. Said boy walked on, dipping his head to a tilt towards his sneakers. I dipped my thin body towards the floor to retrieve my pack. "What's his damn problem? Glaring at me like that..."

"He doesn't pay you attention," huffed Mary. "Then he goes all out suddenly to be rude... Doesn't matter, Sis. He's just jealous of your moustache."

I turned to look at her, my thin, blonde brows knit in confusion. Although I loved her, she invoked just as much confusion in me as affection. I buried my pack against my chest. "Doesn't matter. Most people I know are jerks. C'mon, let's go face Mr. Bluethorne."

Gary Bluethorne was the math teacher who looked far too young and unqualified for his job. With the expression of a seasoned grouch with every reason to hate the world and the ego of any other mathematics educator ever, he could as well have been the antiChrist in the minds of teens who lacked a figure in their life they could blame evil on. As any other day before, he sat behind the front desk. His eyes, as dark as a coal from the center of Hell, as dark as my eyes, were narrowed under his thick brow. His hair, unbrushed, was as black as his eyes. As Mary and I entered at once, side-by-side, he scowled at us. "You're early."
"Better be early than on time!" Mary said, smiling. "Be happy we don't come in late, Mr. Bluethorne." My friend took my by the hand and led me to our window seats, where she sat in front of me and I sat behind her. The places we chose made it ultimately harder to talk, but we both liked window seats, where all the magical events were seen happening.

"A delinquent is much better than a goody-two-shoes, Miss Clarkson. A delinquent will go somewhere in life, even if the place they go is bad. A goody-two-shoes will be bullied their whole lives."

And there went a debate, a teenage girl versus a teenage girl versus a mathematical antiChrist. I situated myself into my seat, resting my eyes on his calloused, olive hands rather than his eyes that were so frighteningly exact to mine. "Actually, I think that if we survive this age, we rise above bullying. In adulthood, we don't have enough time or patience to give other adults swirlies."

Gary Bluethorne scoffed. "Then what do you call harassment?"

"Harassment," Mary said.

He was about to open his mouth to say something to contradict our thoughts, perhaps "Harassment is another term for bullying in adulthood", knowing him. However, the bell to begin class rang out with a shrill cry. Mr. Bluethorne shut his mouth with a wavering expression of annoyance on his face, one brow twitching. With a wrinkle of disgust centering from his nose, the other students began to file in.

Dillan Raking was two seats away from me, and an empty seat in between us kept me from reaching over and smacking him. Dillan's inseparable friend, Delta Waters, sat by Mary. Other familiar people came in, claiming chairs as their own. The seat beside me, as every other day, went unfilled. Each teenager sat by friends, talking as if they hadn't seen each other in months. Mary and I, however, merely glanced at each other with a smile and turned to pay attention.

Gary Bluethorne smacked the chalk board with his paddle, which had tattered apple stickers running up its side. "Alright, settle down!"

A blondie sneered and hissed, "This joke still uses a chalkboard! That's so old."

Fango Mills, the smartest boy in the grade, defended the fact with, "I think the new stuff is overrated. The old things are cool!"

I propped my chin up on my knuckles, glaring towards the board. The following moments were what made the day unusual, were what made it "as-every-other-day". Beside the clutter littered across Gary Bluethorne's desk, dipping his head towards his white tennis shoes, there stood a boy. It wasn't the fact he was new there that caught my attention, nor the foreign wideness of his electric blue eyes. It wasn't the shape of his face, which suggested some strange nationality I had never heard of before. It wasn't the color of his skin, which was a pale hue.

It was the shock white hair that lied slick over his head and covered one eye. The hair that made him look like a ghost. The hair of the man from my dream, who always gave me the weapon to murder my mother.

He took the seat beside me.

***

The try-outs for Romeo and Juliet were anything but overwhelming. There were merely three potential Juliet's in line, including me. Then, there were easily six Romeo's. I bet Mary five dollars that they were only there so they could kiss an attractive girl at some point.

Among the Romeo positions were Dillan Raking himself, Delta Waters, and Fango mills. The presence of Fango surprised me, seeing as how he was more of the type to narrate the play, if anything. Dillan and Delta were laughing loudly, shoving each other in line, not taking anything seriously. Two of the other boys in line were in a grade above me, and I hadn't the slightest clue who they were. Then, the eerie and pale boy stood at a distance behind them. He wore a slightly bored, calm expression, turning to glance at me every few moments.

In the line of girls trying out for the role of Juliet, there were two giggling girls in front of me. One looked to anorexic. Her hair fell in inky lengths against her forehead, and a black braid tied itself into her hair neatly. She wore her lips a size too big and a shade too red, and she seemed to have overused the golden eye makeup. Her friend wore a long, neatly trimmed ponytail with a couple pounds of makeup more. I could hardly tell what color their eyes were. They also wore matching pink t-shirts depicting Bible passages. Much like the new kid, I stood a few feet behind their gossip and inspected the potential Romeo's instead.

The new kid was staring at me again, and he wasn't making any attempt to hide it.

Deeming the new kid a creep, I prayed that Fango would be the get the part; he seemed to be the only one even slightly respectful of the play, besides me. In all honesty, the girls in front of me probably only wanted to be able to kiss a boy.

The new kid leaned over a bit. "Your name is Emma, correct? Emma Whitestone?" The melody of his voice stayed true to his unknown nationality, carrying an uncanny accent to his words. English seemed uncomfortable for his tongue, and he pronounced his words in a richer way. It didn't seem that the American language was his first. All the while, it was a bit enjoyable to listen to.

I crossed my arms over my chest, glancing away in fear that I would melt him with the heat of my glare. "Yes, it is. Your name?"

"My name is Oliver." I was expecting something more cultured from him.

I shuffled my feet and moved the blonde curls out of my face. "Why are you trying out for Romeo, Oliver?" In all truth, the new kid was making me nervous. After all, the shock-white hair always brought me into a fearful sweat, reminding me of the hot and sticky blood that had occupied me in the recurring nightmare. "You're new. Best not to complicate yourself with all this extra stuff."

Oliver shrugged. "When I am somewhere, I try to make my mark on where I am... I don't stay there long, but it still matters to me." He cracked his knuckles and flushed, as if he had said something he regretted, became suddenly shy, or something else along the lines. "I want to do as much as I can... Besides, I have been told I am a legitimate actor."

"Legitimate actor, eh?" I smiled; perhaps something could be learned from him, good or bad. It was no secret to anyone that I was borderline obsessed with chasing the career of an actress. "And you wanting to be Romeo has nothing to do with whoever is Juliet?"

He looked genuinely confused, brow knit. "Why would it have anything to do with the part of Juliet, Emma? Should it?"

"Hehe, you're an okay actor, alright."

"Thank you. And I assume you are a legitimate actor, as well. Dillan Raking has made a lot of references to how much you enjoy the position of acting. He seems a little... mocking, when he speaks about you... However, I think your determination is admirable."

I narrowed my coal-ish eyes at Oliver, eyebrows crinkling, trying to assess if he was being genuine. The little bit of information about Dillan was new to me, but the pure strangeness of the new kid was more of a concern to me at the moment.

Suddenly, Gary Bluethorne called my name, "Emma Whitestone, you're up!" I didn't even glance back at Oliver as I made my way up to stage to try out for the role of Juliet. However, even turned away from him, I could feel the phantom of his blue eyes leech onto me, still watching. I shuddered under the chill of his gaze, and stepped onto the unfinished scene.

When I turned to the crowd watching the tryouts, I found it wasn't Mary that I gulped nervously at. It was Oliver. And it wasn't the tryouts I was afraid of.

***

At night, the dream came again, but different.

The horizon blushes across the edge of a desert, one that gives me an eerie sense of familiarity. The flushing hues of pink and blue flash in neon shades against the sky, along with a color that, surprisingly, I have never seen before. The sun itself is a crisp, burnt orb of cold light settling on the split of day and night. The shadows were already reaching forward towards me, wrapping the tendil prongs of shade fingers around my body. There are no trees in sight to cast any extra, darker shadows; instead, there is only a castle.

The castle has a sandy texture to it, as if there had recently been a sandstorm that madly swept the area. Wherever that wind had gone, it was over; now, there lie a blanket of nothingness over the land. No wind disturbs me as I trudge up an unsettled dune towards the great building. It is as if this place has only recently been touched by the elements and wasn't used to it. At the door of the castle, the handle is made of dusty gold. The door itself is marble. There are three stories to the miniature castle, and I know them all automatically: the living spaces and such are at the bottom, the rooms are mostly in the middle, the library and a training room tops the project... Great dune barriers rise up to protect the walls of the castle, all except for the front. At both the side of the building and the rooftop, there is a garden where the fruit and vegetables never die. I am not sure how I know about this castle, but I do.

I can smell the people inside, a rough guess of eleven scents flowing into my nostrils. A few of them smell like me, as if they had been covered in the scent of sulfur and fruit. Some more smell like mist and mint. Some smell like heavy water and spring grass. Every single one of them smelled like the desert: hot, dry, dusty...

I found my feet, bare and exposed to the hardened clumps of sand, moving completely on their own. They moved towards the castle, towards the people, towards the familiar strangeness that lie in wait for me. I'm at the door in a matter of seconds, whereas it should have taken minutes for someone who was not running. Not only is my sense of smell amazing here, but I seem to pass as fast now. I lift my fist at the door marble, ready to knock, but a strange instinct fills me instead. It tells me that this is my home, that I don't have to knock. So, instead, I wrap my long fingers around the dusty golden door knob. I'm consumed with a sense of relief, like a soldier going home has, or like a formerly abducted child going home again. I think the sense leaned towards the latter.

The door opens with a lagging creak, and I waste no time hurrying inside. In the castle (it does not look like a castle, but it feels rude not to call it one), the first room looks like an old-fashioned den in a polished wood house. There's a moose head mounted onto the wall across from me, but it looks like it's a piece of art instead of a hunting trophy. Just below the moose head is a mirror streaked with scratches on one lower corner, tilted upwards a bit so the reflection would show the ceiling instead. Under all of this was a dresser with a vase of fake flowers on the table, who seemed to be made by the same person who made the false hunting trophy. Although there are no doors, there are two other rooms. One is a dark kitchen, the other is an empty space accompanied by stairs. The metal in the stairs is a color I had never seen before, and its luster was complicated. The railing was made up of polished obsidian. The steps were packed sand, mixed with some strange other material.

I chose to walk up the nearest staircase, which led to a dark hallway that looked as if it should belong in a hotel. The carpet was clean, despite some sand visible on it. The flooring beneath the fur carpeting was made of black wood. At the very end of the hall was a window with two chairs on either side of it. There were eight doors, four on each flank of the hallway. I found myself following the second door to the left by instinct. My heart pounded against my ribs, shaking my body with each little leap it gave. I had the feeling I wasn't just returning home, but going back to an old friend that I had missed for forever.

When I saw that the man inside was unfamiliar, I outwardly slouched. However, the man greets me with great joy. He bounds over, smothers me in a hug, and gives a loud laugh. His arms are toned ring around my head, and his chest sending of wafts of smell. He is one of the people who smelled like water and spring grass, sun and sand. Whoever he is, he knows me. But I am not looking for him.

"Do you know where he is?" I ask, blunt. I wasn't sure who I was looking for, but I hoped someone else did. I peel back from the hug, looking up at him. He is tall, face designed in a foreign way as if his nationality was not even one of earth. "I can't find him."

He says, "No. I'm looking for him. He's probably in the library, but it's locked and he won't answer the door when I knock on it. You could try, if he's there, Extant."

"How do you know who I am looking for?"

"Easy. You're looking for your Apotropaic. Every Extant does when they come here. You're the Kalos Extant of Wind. Welcome home, Emma Whitestone."

I could have stayed and asked him the many questions I had, but the urge to find the so-called "Apotropaic" presses me to find him. I need to find him. It's not a want. It's almost as if I will starve or dehydrate without the man's presence. As soon as I leave the room, someone else's memories flow into my head. They are all memories of names, associated with the scents I smell from the rooms down the hallway. Mun. Gan. Ace. Ace is undoubtedly the man who hugged me. Caleb. Carter. Another name mutes itself, and I know by instinct that it is the name of the man I am looking for. Jupus. Ebony. Nahara. These are the names that swell my chest a bit, as if I am more than proud to know them, although I have no clue who they are. Fango. Dillan. Delta. I know them, but I don't care. I need to find the man with a missing name. He is the only one I need to see.

There is a staircase on of the eight doors lead to, which spirals up to a huge library. The complicatedness of the library doesn't match the rest of the castle, which is very casual and country-like. It's humongous, royal purple sheets draped around the walls, ladders needed to be able to reach the tops of the bookshelves. The door to the library was not locked when I went up. In fact, there wasn't even a door there. There was a fireplace, and a boy reclined on a handmade chair with a quarter-read book. The boy's presence excited me; he is the one I am searching for.

I step into the library, and a burst of wind flows into the room. Some books shudder on their shelves, and pages twitch at the sudden air. The boy, sitting in the hand-made chair with his back to me, shuts his book with a sudden force. He is happy to see me, too. He's even happier than I am.

I amble over as he stands and faces me. He grins innocently and says, "I knew it, my Extant..." He leaps onto the fragile table in his way by the chair, then bounces off to greet me. He wraps his arms around my shoulder and buried my chin into the crook of his corded neck, squeezing me into his chest. I awkwardly stand there for a moment, then he pulls away and he glances me over. "What is your name?" he asks, as if he is attempting to confirm something.

"Emma Whitestone," I reply, knitting my thin eyebrows in confusion.

He keeps going with a couple more questions. "What is your kingdom?"

"Kalos."

"What are you?" is his last query.

"I am a demon," I say, sure.

An expression of enjoyment flashes across his pale face. His lower lip is being nibbled by his perfect, small front teeth, and his eyes glow in a vast ocean of happiness. "You're waking up! This is so amazing! Wait until the Minium prophet appears! We'll have the whole set! Are you completely lucid, Emma Whitestone?"

Something bats my heart when he says 'Minium', but I ignore it. "I don't feel like I am in complete control of myself right now, but I know I am... asleep..." 'Dreaming' sounds like the wrong word. "As if it will fade and, for now, I'm only half conscious, half-aware."

"Your Earth self knows nothing of here, but she will, in time." He takes my hand in his slender, artistically carved fingers, leads me to the chair, and invites me to sit in it. I do, and he stands before me. "And you don't completely understand, either."

"But I will."

He dips his head. "Yes. Now, it is time to both wake and sleep, my Extant. Your night will be over soon, and ours will start. Goodbye, my Extant, Emma Whitestone."

I decide to say his name this time. "Bye, my Apotropaic, Oliver Kalos."

I press my head into the side of the chair, nuzzling the furry coat cushion with my body. I query myself, what is it that I don't understand? And when the world goes dark on me, I question, what do I understand? My attitude, my vision, it all shifted. I found myself, cast from the dream, staring up at the ceiling. I hadn't dreamed of killing my mother again, and that was a first.

But there was an eerie fact: lingering in the air was the scent of the library, the scent of oranges. And I had the distinct feeling that, although I woke in my home, Oliver was still watching me. As if his blue eyes were still trained on me, and I was still slumbering in that chair.

The picture is of Mary. Well, as close to Mary as you can get. Don't forget to vote and comment! It really makes my day!