Snippet #1909021

Aerith never really remembered her dreams, or at least not in full. It had always troubled her greatly; the ephemeral tales that wove in and out of her thoughts, never leaving anything more than a vague memory or a bad, ominous feeling. She had at one point accepted it, realizing that some things were simply not meant to be for some people, but now that she was actually having one, clear and coherent, she was wishing that she could return to the ambiguity of nothingness.

It was dark, an overbearing sense of fear overtaking her like a large wave on a forgotten shore. She could hardly see, but her other senses were frighteningly acute, picking up all the little sounds, the little noises forming around her like an orchestra. She tried to push herself up, but the cold pavement latched onto her chest like talons, tearing at her very flesh itself as the clinking of chains sounded distantly, like those found in some sort of prison, but without the screams of inmates to accompany it.

She had known fear, but not by this name, and not by this face.

Laughter began to echo off the walls as she fumbled blindly for a way out, or at least some source of light. It was maniacal sounding, like that of a man whose mind was only a distant memory, lost to the ebb and flow of time eternal. It would stop, only for a moment, and then resume with equal fervor, as if taunting her hopes, drawing them and hunting like some sick killer in search of another victim.

She would know, she had done the same.

She could still remember the first man she killed. His bloodshot eyes; yellow, rotted teeth; a pot belly with nothing in it. She wasn't even a hunter yet, though it didn't really matter either way. He was a criminal, a killer of children, and her first pursuer. She was young, 4-5 perhaps, when she saw him smash the hammer through the young girl's skull at the empty harbor, blood splattering the walls like paint. He basked in it, the blood and guts and gore, writhing in ecstasy as he admired his work. She remembered screaming, running in the opposite direction as quickly as her little legs could muster, but to no avail. He was on her in moments, a hand on his hammer and another on her throat. He leaned in, pressing his dirty face against hers as she sobbed loudly, praying to whatever and whoever to save her from the demonic man, sneering down at her with eyes of fire. She knew no one was coming, that no one would help, that she would die like the little girl she knew so well...but she couldn't accept it. Gathering all of her strength, she landed a fierce kick into his crotch as he dropped her, falling to the ground as he cradled his wounded manhood. In her fury, her self preservation instinct, she picked up the hammer and brought it down in an inhuman, adrenaline fueled arc, smashing through the top part of his head and straight into her ankle. He let out a grunt as he drooped and then crashed into the ground, his heavy body at her tiny feet.

The rest of that night was hazy, just as it was here and now in the dark room. She remembered that she fled in pain, that she cried, and that it was the night that she stopped remembering her dreams.

Likely for the better, she thought as she awoke to the smell of herbs.

Aerith shook her head as she opened her eyes, the warehouse coming into sight, her side stinging like it was in flames. She wasn't dead, that was for sure, but she certainly wasn't in the greatest of shape either. What troubled her more was how; she had been injured and alone, but was now covered in a blanket, feeling a little sick, but treated and in much better shape. It was dark now, the sun having retreated into the hills. It was dark, but she could well enough see.

Two red eyes watching her from the shadows.