I used to never believe in dreams. They were time consuming
and I considered them hopeless, I had goals of course, to get a successful job
and live independently until I died.
However that was before we were attacked. It was a cold day;
mist hovered near the ground and light barely streamed through the clouds.
Small patches of light hung around near the tall oak trees that surrounded my
town. We were encircled by them. Shadows played games, slowly pulling children
deeper and deeper into the forest. They came during the day, dark silver cloaks
encrusted their skin. The sun grazed them yet they continued. It was their
voices though, pristine with a slight tinge of a melancholic twang, that struck
terror. They took whatever meat, us villagers, they saw and ate our fellows
right in front of our eyes, they stuffed their faces like dogs. Blood streamed
like tears from their mouths. We lived in land that lay above less than a mile
of asbestos, a dangerous mineral which can sabotage the human lungs, otherwise we
would have built basements and safe houses deep underground. We couldn’t leave
our houses during the day and at night, the roads leading out of the town were
just as dangerous as the shadow men.
As young childre, we would make dares over who would go in
deeper down the road, none of us children dared stay in the path for more than
five minutes. It was stupid. Five years ago when I was seven, my mother went on
a brisk walk to find pharmaceutical plants in the forest, ten days later they found bones
covered in her clothing with a white liquid coating it like slime on worms. The
next day my father ran into the forest for revenge. His body was never found.
That year I was orphaned and forsaken by everyone. I never learned to trust
again.
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