AWAKENING PROLOGUE: The Dream

The sound of breath – consistent, nasally breath. A rising of the chest. A light pater of rain on the window. Stillness.

A hand. The hand of a man clenching another’s. A firm, unshaken grasp, as of two brothers knowingly hugging for the last time. The fingers squeezed tight. The fingers turned red. No sound. No smell. No other sight. Just a dry tongue and a stuffy nose.

The shattering of glass. No sight.

A gunshot. The smell of smoke. The piercing of skin. The spatter of blood. The taste of death.

The shuffle of a foot slowly approaching, dragging with each step. Such painful, slow movement. No smell. No taste.

The sound of a woman’s voice screaming to run. Such dreadful urgency.

 

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