Before the lavender scent of home reached him, there was only the gray fog of the subconscious.
In the dream, Shren is standing in the center of the school gymnasium. The lights are blindingly bright, reflecting off the polished floor. He is trying to run, but his legs feel like they are made of lead. His breathing is loud, heavy, and wet—a sound he hates.
Around him, the entire school stands in the bleachers. They aren't cheering; they are pointing. Marcus Thorne stands at the front, holding a giant mirror.
"Look at yourself, Shren," Marcus sneers, his voice echoing like thunder. "A waste of space. A waste of skin. You can't even finish a sentence without stuttering. You think you belong in this world?"
Shren looks into the mirror. His reflection is distorted—grotesquely large, his skin covered in oily sheen, his eyes filled with a pathetic, watery fear. He tries to look away, but he can't. Suddenly, the floor beneath him turns into a pile of test papers, all marked with failing grades in bright, bleeding red ink.
The papers begin to swirl like a cyclone, pinning him down. He tries to call out for Kaelen, but his best friend is standing far away, held back by invisible chains, unable to reach him.
"I'm sorry, Shren," Kaelen whispers in the dream, his voice fading. "You're just too heavy to carry anymore."
The mocking laughter of the crowd grows into a deafening roar. Shren feels like he is suffocating under the weight of his own failures. Just as the darkness is about to swallow him whole, a faint violet spark ignites on his wrist. The cold metal of the bracelet pulses, and the heat from it burns through the nightmare like a torch through silk.
That is when his eyes snap open in his bedroom.