The Boy

It was a huge, stained glass gate that she dreamt. She needed to get into that building, with an urgency and hope that, even in her dream, almost scared her.

She had no idea what was on the other side, she just knew she had to get in, she had to see.

She could not get in. And there, on the

other side, here he was: pale, dark-haired, dressed in black. He looked at her a nd was indifferent -- or so she liked to believe, even now, years, and

heartbreaks later.

It was a dream; and since she could

remember every single detail of it, it would probably come true: that was theunwritten rule in her family passed from mother to daughter, the cross they had to bear. Was it the reason why

he had chosen her among others?

She was sixteen when she had that dream: a teenager whose universe zoomed in on herself: her love life, her friendships,h er loneliness, the emptiness that nothing and no one, not even the momentswhere she decided to be a slut could ever fill.

He had chosen her because of that emptiness; he could see treasures she could not. He would take everything in that dark place inside herself – leaving just what she feared the most: the void, the blackness.

The years went by, after that weird

dream; she never forgot it because she felt, deep in her heart that it had to

have a meaning.

Fast forward a few years and dreams later and she finally set foot in the building she had dreamt of: there was a thick stained glass door, but the building was usually closed by an iron gate.

She fell in love with that place: that old monastery turned into a college department.

She felt invincible and happy. The emptiness was starting to feel less dark, less brittle.

Until another dream happened: she was inside a giant watch, lost in a rusty maze of giant cogs and springs seeking out a friend. Up was down, and down was up in that vivid dream where her friend was waiting for her and for some reason she was wearing Victorian clothing and was steps ahead of her.

And there he was, again, right outside her way out: it was the same boy (young man) she had seen in a dream, once before; she could see the perfect pale skin, the black hair, the brown almond yes.

She had to get through that door and he let her, a smirk on his face, a promise in his eyes, while she could feel her heart bursting out of her chest and woke up shaken, staring at the dark ceiling n her room.

She didn’t know. She couldn’t know what was ahead of her.

Fight or flight was a real thing. She chose wisely, in her dream.

The following day she spotted him, among hundreds of students all waiting for the lecture to start.

The boy-man she had dreamt twice existed in the real world: he had a rich laughter that she could hear even at a distance, his hair was indeed black, his skin was pale and his eyes were brown. Just like in her dreams.

That day, he was the only person she could see in a room filled to the brim with people. He was the only person who looked real, whose colors were vibrant and not slightly distorted, like everybody else.

Fight or flight.

She didn't choose wisely in the real world. 

Later, much later, they stood once before the very place where she had first dreamt of him. They stood in the same exact spot of her first dream, and it was raining and looking at him, yearning him had become second nature for her.

She thought of telling him what happened, that strange coincidence (or had it been foreboding?), but by that time she knew he would rob her of her dream, make it his own and she couldn't give him that too. Not that part of her.

He was the boy-man of her dreams, literally; and what he did in real world was prying hearts apart and used his skills to fill the cracks in his façade so that no one could see him, the real him until it was too late.

He was brilliant, he was beautiful, he was cruel.

He was a boy who had lived a hundred lives and toyed with dreams and fed on the dark places inside of his victims, for he knew they were never truly empty and the more he dug, the more treasures he could find.

His was a siren call: he sprinkled some mystery in your life, bewitched you with his voice, with the perfection of his skin and pried you open: sucking blood, tears, soul only to discard you, once you were but a shell of the person you used to be.

He had not allowed the young girl to enter that building in her first dream because she wasn't ripe; he had let her pass through that door with a smirk on his face because she was to be next.

Her meal, her toy; blood and tears and soul, he could feed on and throw aside when he was done.

There might still be girls, out there, dreaming of closed doors, and he might be on the threshold, watching them slam their closed fists and cry to get in.

Or he might be smirking, his pale skin almost translucent, the freckles on the bridge of his nose, making him look childlike and innocent as he assesses whether a new girl is ripe for the taking. 

To this girls, to this young women I want to tell them to be deaf to his voice, it will be hard to, for it truly is an enticing sound: it is a deep, warm baritone. 

 Resist his words: they will look incredibly smart, spoken to make you feel like you are the sun and he is orbiting around you.

He is clever, never forget that.

Know that he has done this dance hundreds of times; he knows what to say, when to say it. He knows he just needs to use carefully chosen words and like a succubus he will drain of your life and you will smile thankfully as he feeds on you because he is giving crumbs of illusions. He doesn’t need to do more than that.

He can be in your dreams, he can read right through you, he only needs to give you as little as possible to keep you hooked.

There might be girls who have met him, whose souls were cracked open with hissed words or the perfection of his pale, too pale skin.

He is who he is.

The girl who dreamt of him twice, survived.

She had to survive. She didn’t have a choice, even when she felt like the shell that kept her together was as frail as porcelain.

She feared that if she broke, all the darkness inside of her, the cracks, the wounds and the scars he had left would be in the open for the world to see.

She still pretends she doesn't remember the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes and how easily he could feed on her.

She does.

 She might have forgotten the exact sound of is voice, but can she still sense it, echoing in the darkness inside of her, the one she tries so hard not to spread around – if he was an incubus, a vampire, she will be damned before she spreads his disease.

So, yes, she had withered inside and her soul is still cracked in places and she has left the broken pieces there, just for her to see. They’re mementos of the dreams she had, the ones that came true, and those that didn’t, that could never do because he was never real – he was still the boy who stood on the other side of that gate and didn’t let her in. He was still the boy-man who smirked and let her pass through that door. It was never more than that. 

At times she wonders whether he is still thriving (feeding). She doesn't know. She never wants to. 

She has learned not to care, not by day, not until the next dream starts.

And part of her still seeks him. She suspects that part of her will always do. It's the price she has to pay for surviving, she guesses.

She suspects that, whenever he is he smiles when she does that.

She doesn't smile, but she is alive. She is cracked in some places but she exists in the present, in the dreams she still has -- those that still come true, and one day, she will forgive herself.

She will.