This was not the first time. Ansel had dreamed this dream many times before, each visit leaving him more drained, more unsettled.
His head throbbed painfully, a relentless pounding that made it difficult to think clearly. The dizziness was overwhelming, as if the world around him was shifting and trembling like an earthquake.
His limbs felt weak and heavy, as though his body was slowly giving in to an invisible force. Even his sweat was cold against his skin, chilling him to the bone.
Breathing became erratic, shallow gasps that did little to calm the storm raging inside him. The line between waking and sleeping blurred, and Ansel found himself trapped in a liminal space where fear and confusion reigned.
For Shenmorta, the realm of visions and dreams was never simple or benign. These were not mere figments of imagination but powerful forces that clung to the soul, refusing to release their grip.
The dream, the vision, they were messages, warnings from a world beyond his understanding. And they were coming for him, whether he was ready or not.
At their worst, they brought unbearable pain, headaches so severe they rivaled the agony of brain cancer, a torment that gnawed at the edges of sanity.
But the pain that Ansel felt was malignant, because there was no medicine that could relieve the pain. Even so, a strip of medicine sometimes couldn't help at all. At least, it could endure pain.
Ansel slowly rose from his bed, his body heavy and weary from the relentless headache that had been plaguing him since the night before.
He shuffled over to his desk. With a tired sigh, he opened the top drawer, fingers searching through its contents for the familiar relief of headache medicine.
But the drawer was empty.
"I almost forgot something…. The medicine has run out, and I haven't bought it yet." Ansel muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "What am I supposed to do?"
A wave of frustration washed over him. The absence of the small bottle felt like a cruel twist of fate.
Clutching his throbbing head, he stepped out of his room, the dull ache radiating through his temples with every step.
He glanced toward the living room and saw his grandfather sleeping soundly in his favorite armchair, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Ansel hesitated, debating whether to wake him for help, but decided against it. His grandfather deserved rest, and Ansel didn't want to be a burden.
Instead, he made his way to the kitchen, the cool tiles underfoot offering a slight contrast to the warmth of the rest of the house.
He filled a small bowl with water and placed it carefully in the microwave. The hum of the machine filled the silence as he waited, counting the seconds in his head.
When the timer beeped, Ansel retrieved the bowl, steam rising gently from the surface. He grabbed a clean washcloth from the counter, dipping it into the warm water before wringing out the excess. The heat was comforting against his cold, clammy hands.
He always did it. When the stock of headache medicine ran out, he would compress his head. It could reduce the pain. But he couldn't do that all the time. Because it could look like a scorch.
He pressed the warm compress gently against his temples, the soothing sensation dulling the sharp edges of his headache. This was his ritual, his fallback when the medicine was gone.
Still, he knew he couldn't rely on this method forever. Prolonged use could leave his skin red and raw, like a burn, and that was a risk he wasn't eager to take.
Minutes passed, and the tightness in his head began to loosen. His head rested on the edge of the kitchen table, the warm cloth still pressed gently against his skin as he drifted into a restless sleep.
****
Ansel woke up slowly, his eyelids fluttering open to the soft glow of morning sunlight filtering through the kitchen window.
He realized with a start that he had fallen asleep right there at the kitchen table, his head resting on his folded arms.
He instinctively reached up and cradled his head, testing for the familiar, nagging pain. To his relief, the sharp ache that had tormented him through the night was gone, at least for now.
But deep down, Ansel knew this relief was only temporary. The pain was a cruel reminder, a harbinger of the vision that haunted him, the Bloody Marriage.
That dreadful vision was etched into his mind, a dark prophecy that seemed destined to come true. Until it did, the torment would never cease. His body and mind were caught in a relentless cycle of suffering, a punishment for something beyond his control.
As he lay there, Ansel noticed the soft weight of a blanket draped over his shoulders. The fabric was warm and comforting, and he immediately knew who had placed it there, his Grandpa.
But when he looked around, the kitchen was empty. There was no sign of his Grandpa anywhere.
Ansel sat up slowly, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he moved. He scanned the room, then the rest of the house, calling out softly, "Grandpa... Grandpa..." His voice was gentle but tinged with worry.
He checked every corner, every familiar nook and cranny, but the house was eerily silent. His Grandpa was nowhere to be found.
Determined to find answers, Ansel rose from the chair, wrapping the blanket tightly around himself.
He just sat and relaxed his body on the terrace. While he was waiting for his Grandpa to come home, he tried to empty his mind and his gaze. He fixed one object. A butterfly landed on a white magnolia.
The image was vivid and chilling, replaying in his thoughts like a dark prophecy he couldn't escape. The flower seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a sinister symbol of the fate that awaited.
His mind returned to the flower that was in his vision. He thought and imagined that the flower right in front of him had turned red and filled with blood. It was the same as the Bloody Marriage in his vision.
He felt trapped between reality and nightmare, unable to break free from the haunting image that clung to his mind.
Suddenly, a gentle tap on his shoulder startled him, breaking the spell. He turned around quickly, relief flooding through him as he saw the familiar, comforting face of his Grandpa.
"Grandpa... you've come home," Ansel said, his voice trembling slightly with a mix of joy and lingering anxiety. "Where did you go?"
Mr McVeigh's presence was like a warm light cutting through the darkness of Ansel's thoughts. The steady, reassuring aura around him grounded Ansel, pulling him back from the edge of his fearful daydream.
The vision of the Bloody Marriage faded, replaced by the tangible reality of the man who had always been his anchor.