The watch ticks relentlessly. Even if it sounds silly, I always feel that the hands wave to me as they circle the face of numbers in an eternal loop.

It’s nothing but a small pocket watch; I’ve cradled it in my pockets on a daily basis for as long as I can remember. But, the catch is that it has a quality like nothing I’ve seen before: with it I can control the life spans of those I’ve interacted with.

Now normal people might extend the life spans of their friends and family for as long as humanly possible. But did I say I was normal?

I see it as an unknown source of karma and revenge. My middle school bullies may have thought they’d won when they broke my arm or strapped me in the trunk of a car, but I’ll have the last laugh when I show up, uninvited, to their funerals.

Better yet, they’ll both die just before their birthdays when they turn 21; they won’t be able to drink away the memories of their hate crimes against me. Bummer.

Sure, it’s inhumane and unethical—but so are hate crimes.

I really don’t see the difference.

My legs are numb, my fingers are limp, and I feel paler than a ghost when I wake up in a cold sweat.

My heart continues to race as my eyes adjust to the dim room, illuminated by a single night light that brightens the darkest corner of my apartment. My sensibility arrives, and I recognize my closet door, ajar to reveal my finest shirts and dresses that solemnly hang upon stray hooks.

My clock reads 4:23. I realize that it’s been no more than an hour since the last nightmare; I’ve had such an abundance of nightmares tonight that I can no longer tell my horrid dreams apart from my grim reality. This might be sleep paralysis, might be insomnia, might be both—the problem is that I have no idea.

My dreams begin with myself in bed, unable to move and in my own room, as normal sleep paralysis victims usually experience. I hear bangs and footsteps, running at me, approaching me, and I don’t know what direction they’re coming from. I keep my doors closed, but they still get in. I see them crawl out from under my bed, their needle-like arms, seeming to glitch in a void of black, and their dark hands, darker than the night’s blackest shadows. They reach for me, slowly sliding their slender arms towards me, while their white, expressionless eyes stab into soul.

And just before they can reach my face, I fall through the world. The bed disappears from under me, and I try to scream at the top of my lungs, but I am voiceless—as if someone has severed my vocal chords.

Now, this is the point where the normal dreams of sleep paralysis victims end. Mine continue.

Tonight, I fell to my university. The dream starts sunny and bright, except there are no people throughout the college, but the school itself is so accurately realistic that sometimes, I forget I’m asleep; I forget until the demons return.

The atmosphere grows dark and I hear a series of knocking. A wind I cannot feel chills my bones. Then, there’s footsteps. There’s chittering and whispering, and I feel a thousand eyes on me.

Then, they surface. The demons climb in from everywhere, surrounding me like flies to a rotting carcass. They slide in from windows, they jump out of the ceiling, they reach through the floor and pull me under. And suddenly, at that moment, I cannot run or scream or cry, and I must let them engulf my being as their hundreds of soulless white eyes watch me suffer.

And then, I wake up in a cold sweat.

He’s high up—it makes my stomach churn, but it almost looks fun.

“You alright?” I shout.

He looks around. His eyes meet mine, and he tilts his head.

I thought he might not have heard me. I question him with thumbs-up, because he looks around my age. He nods to the gesture.

The blue sky glows against his back. The wind wants to knock him down, but he continues to shuffle over the concrete wall.

“What’re you doing?”

He looks at me again, his eyebrows furrowing. “You’re nosy.”

I’m taken aback for a moment at the sudden insult. I nod and mumble an apology, then continue on my way.

“Hey!” he calls from behind me after a moment.

I spin around, and a smirk spreads across his face.

He jumps down from the wall. It’s a far drop, but he bends his knees and breaks the fall, then bounces to his feet—as if he’s taken that drop plenty of times. “If you ever get admitted to a mental hospital, let me know.”

“Okay?”

He shrugs, gives me a small wave, and runs in the opposite direction, all too quickly.

I shake my head. I’m never visiting my aunt in this odd town again.

I ignore the interaction and continue my exploration of the city. It’s a solemn place, but it has some good restaurants.

I follow the white wall, tracing my finger along it as I walk. It’s twice my height, and it towers over me. I round the corner where the white wall bends, revealing a sign and further down a grand, guarded gate.

An old sign reads: Lox Mental Hospital for the Epileptic and Mentally Disturbed.

I never live unless I’m writing.

And not just these diary entries—I mean stories; books and novels of fantasies and legends, originalities beyond comprehensible means, my own imagination spurring out on ink and paper in between the lines. I may write of my greatest wishes, deepest fears, finest thoughts.

I write of the rain; the way it falls on the contents of the Earth to nourish them to their peaks of livelihood so that they may flourish with a bounty of vitality and reproduction.

I write of the sun; a halcyon of unmistakable luminance that chases the silent moon away and forges life itself from Mother Nature.

I write of the sea; roaring waters of such gargantuan and unmeasurable immensity that they may never be scrutinized, and so the darkest depths will forever remain black.

I write of all the things my mind pursues. If my illness is to only deteriorate my mind, then I will write until I cease to exist.

The thousands of pages I’ve scrawled upon are what keep me alive. Writing is my antidote.

“Nope.” I shake my head and hand the carrot back to my mother.

“Let’s try an onion.” She saunters over to the refrigerator as if nothing’s wrong—as if I’m not in the midst of losing one of my key senses. “Here.”

I spit carrot bits into the sink. A month ago, I would have refused the onion. Now, I’m desperate to taste something.

I take the onion into my hands and bite down like it’s an apple. My face illuminates as my tongue swims through the bitter sourness of the vegetable. I triumphantly nod at my mother whilst I spit the onion into the sink; I’ve never been so happy to taste something so horrible.

“So you can taste the strong stuff,” she notes, resting her elbows upon the kitchen counter.

“Barely.”

“Well, I still think it’s ageusia,” she claims professionally. “Sometimes it’s a side effect of diabetes.”

“Can you give me that diagnosis?”

“No, but Eva can. You can come with me to the hospital and I’ll take you to her.”

I nod. If my mother, a nurse, isn’t worried, then I shouldn’t be either. There must be some version of a cure.

I’ve struggled with my type two diabetes for a while. It’s brought me other side effects that have made my days ever so much harder, and to not be able to taste is just another log on the fire. But, losing a sense makes me more upset than my constant blurred vision and never-ending thirst for water does.

“We’ll get you all fixed up,” she says before she exits the kitchen. And after a silence, she calls behind her:

“If Eva can’t fix you, then I’ll be worried.”

One foot. Then the other.

Again.

One foot. The other.

Repeat.

Step, step. Good.

“Great, that’s enough for today.”

That’s what Lindsay said earlier. She’s my physical therapist, and even though I’m supposed to call her Mrs. Howard, I don’t. She’s nice enough, though sometimes she also tries to be my psychological therapist when she makes me tell her about my life. I hate when she does that.

Today I tried to walk with her. They strapped me in this machine that’s half-submerged in water. It’s supposed to help me learn to move my legs, but it doesn’t. And the water is freezing.

Supposedly I’ll never walk again. That’s what the doctors told me. I was hit by a car and now both of my legs are paralyzed; they’ll never hold my weight again.

I grimace as I pinch my finger between the spokes of one of the wheels on my wheelchair while I roll out of Lindsay’s office.

“Let me push you.” My mom.

I attempt to speed up, but she grabs on anyway and pushes me in the chair. I’m helpless, as usual.

“What’s the point of physical therapy if they say I’ll never walk again?” I’d asked her earlier, before the therapy appointment.

I remember her silence before she answered. “They say it’s worth a try anyway.”

“I think it’s dumb.”

She’d sighed like she was disappointed, but in a pitiful way. “Just let them try to help you.” Then she’d skimmed her fingers across the back of my neck and my hairs pricked up. “Someone who doesn’t want help cannot be saved.”

“I don’t need saving.”

She didn’t have the energy to argue with me. All she’d said was, “Alright.”

And I’d made a mistake when I responded with, “I wish that car had killed me.”

Since his birth I have been; I assist his cloudy days Until sunshine prevails, I illuminate his darkest nights Until copious stars break through

I am his light—I am his lion Audaciously confident Fierce in some force, Aiding he who grows Like the seeds of a garden

Companionship he participates in; Others are beyond my control But well he chooses with them— Spirits wielding blades of kindness That may change with the wind

A breeze that drifts gently; A change that arrives subtly He then begins to flail And drown in the waves That the wind stirs up

Companions betray and so does he The light that I gifted is drowned— Beyond salvageable, a small ember Never to take fire again Never to be pure again

His seeds grow but do not flourish; The strength of a lion is not as strong As his mindset for money is Nature he kills and words he cuts with; I am neglected and downturned

He grows, but I do not grow with him I leave him to his duties of destruction For I am not enough for him And there is nothing left of him for me; The seeds of my boy are poisoned

“Please.” “There is nothing to plead for.” “I can give you anything you want.” “There is nothing that I want.” “Please.” “Say that word again and see what happens.” “Okay.” … “I don’t know what to do.” “Let me take your pain away.” “I don’t want that.” “You do not have a choice.” “I’m begging you.” “Don’t.” “If you unlock the door we could arrange something.” “That would be idiotic.” “But it wouldn’t. We’ll both leave here with what we want.” “I want you to die.” “Please.” “Your suffering ends here.” “But I’m not suffering.” “You will be.” … “Quit crying. You may give me your final words so that I can tell them to your family.” “Don’t do this to them.” “You chose this.” “You didn’t give me any good options.” “You chose to die instead of your family. You will now fulfill that choice. Give me your final words.” “No.” “Then I will tell your family nothing.” “You’re insane.” “You are stubborn.” “You’re a horrible person and I hope you live the rest of your life suffering.” “Your suffering ends here. May your afterlife be peaceful yet especially short, so that you are reborn into your next life filled with an unimaginable and unbearable suffrage and sorrow. Farewell.”

“One more step and I’ll slit her throat.”

A wave of unprecedented laughter escaped Syrus’s mouth, and he shrugged and slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I don’t care about her. She’s nobody.”

Erin tightened his grip around the knife at the girl’s throat. “Don’t test me. She’s the last healer your city has.”

“She’s not who she says she is.”

“You‘re lying.”

“Fine,” Syrus snorted. “Kill her. See if I care.”

The girl hardly breathed under Erin’s grip, and when she did, her breaths were short and sputtered. He lowered the knife, and he felt her chest heave with relief.

“What a shame,” Syrus remarked, turning his back to Erin. “You should have killed her. You should have-“

A gasp filled the air. Then the drip of a heavy substance it. Then a thud.

Syrus spun around, his leather shoes stirring clouds of dust about his feet. The girl was on the floor, motionless, surrounded by a pool of fresh blood that spewed out her chest. Her eyes faded to a haze that remained open as they faced the sky, lifeless.

“Erin,” Syrus breathed. He knelt, staring at the girl across the ground. His hands mindlessly moved from his temples to the bridge of his nose with regret. “She was the last healer.

You’ve killed us all.”

It’s dark here.

Soggy, almost. No. Musty? I don’t know. The world is vague, except for a few gleams of dots and patterns that occasionally cross my vision. Otherwise, it’s just a gray haze that I lie in, until, that is, it falters into another reality.

Losing consciousness is a waiting game that takes time—the longer you think about it the longer it takes. The longer your heart races in excitement about falling into a world that is only and truly yours, the harder it is to fall asleep.

I’d say I’m waiting somewhere in between reality and my dreams; a blank and empty sub-reality that will fade into whatever dream my mind places me in. Eventually.

I want to say that it started two weeks ago, but I can’t be sure. I don’t know how long I’ve been controlling my dreams; maybe I only realized it two weeks ago. Maybe exploring the depths of one’s creativity inside of their minds while dozing is an ability we all posses, but not one we all can get in touch with.

Here I wait, trying to clear my mind, trying to open the vaults to my brain that trap my dreams inside. That’s my theory, at least. A loss of consciousness is the key to open them. And when you’re excited about dreaming and your excitement envelopes your mind, the key is pretty damn hard to get.

My thoughts are interrupted by an abrupt and brilliant light that seeps through the haze and gray and darkness. The world swivels and takes form as I watch my surroundings and my torso and legs come into view.

It’s time.