When I was a kid I used to have this recurring dream. It was the middle of the night and I stood in the street between houses filled with light. But this wasn’t a normal neighborhood, there were millions, maybe even billions of houses. Their light felt good, as if I was being covered in a soft blanket of light. About halfway through the dream a great purple light would streak across the sky. With a powerful bang it slammed into the ground, throwing me onto the street. When I got up I would immediately notice that there was one less light than before.

  “A light must have crashed into it, destroying it,” I would think. A second later another light went out, then another, and then another. Soon a great cascade of darkness would overtake the light. I took a step back and would try to run away, but it was never enough. Without fail, I would always be caught by the cold darkness and immediately wake from my dream.

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  Whenever I tried to talk to my parents about it they always said something along the lines of, “You’re just watching too much T.V.” I realized that I wasn’t going to get answers from them, so I stopped bringing it up anymore. A couple of years later, when my parents died, I stopped having the dream. Actually, I stopped dreaming at all. Maybe it was because of my situation or maybe it was because I had to struggle to survive. However, no matter the reason I wouldn’t see that dream anymore.

  Recently, I started having the dream again. I didn’t know how to feel about it at first, but after some time I enjoyed the nostalgia it brang. To a time without the Gifted or the Old City. To a time where I was happy. Yet, escapism wasn’t an option. I had to embrace my reality or tragedy would eat me from the inside.

  I woke up from the dream again today. My alarm beeped loudly, waking me from the abyss and alerting me it was 7:00 AM. I groaned and pulled myself out of bed. It was time to go to school.