Conri was lying. 

His dreams were outnumbered by blank nightmares. They were a warped and mangled world of static where his senses failed him. All sound was silenced, including his cries, and everyday colors were now lonely shades of gray. They had taken over his life since his breakup. The only choice of action was to play his part in these demented stories until he was awoken. 

Tonight he found himself on his back staring at a blistering winter landscape with tree branches following a violent wind stream: the dead leaves silently screaming. The ground below him was uneven as sharp snow continued to accumulate, threatening to bury him. His body found no strength to lift himself up. Shouting proved just as he thought, pointless. From above, the dark curtain of clouds stared back showing no sign of slowing down and the cold was feasting through his skin. Snow fell on his cheeks and melted into tears that burned as they slid down his pale cheeks. His fear grew and he could feel his chest tighten as his arms and legs were now disappearing under mounds of freezing snow. 

If he had audible thoughts, he couldn't hear them, yet he was certain he'd be swearing repeatedly at the horrific possible ending to this dream. Buried alive, suffocated under a beautiful artic blanket was a first for his nightmares. Closing his eyes to not give the clouds above any further satisfaction from his helplessness. Now surrounded by darkness, the sensation of torture heightened. His fingertips itched, stung and screamed and the wind blew straight through his torso. The cold air latched onto his earrings making his head flinch at a familiar pain. Yet from the pain came a new sensation that differed greatly from his surroundings. A spark of warmth that reminded him of a mug filled with a freshly brewed coffee scratched the surface of his cheek. Instinctly he leaned into it, accepting whatever hope that he was suddenly gifted. 

Conri was afraid of opening his eyes and ruining whatever this was, so they stayed shut as the object confirmed itself to be the palm of a hand that smelt of cinnamon spice. The hand gently straightened his head forward and brushed Conri's hair behind his ear, allowing Conri to feel the tips of claws that traced the pointed shape of his pierced ear. The hand lingered on his front helix confirming exactly who this belonged to. 

"Please don't leave." He felt his lips move through the motions. Could his savior even hear him, he wondered. 

Finally, with trickles of ember sized warmth seeping through his body, he opened his eyes. The hand was gone.  Replaced by a wide-shouldered shadow staring down at him, protecting him from further falling snow. The two made eye contact before it turned and started walking away. Conri's panic shot through his nerves. He felt his body begin to move again, lifting through the now melting piles of snow: his clothes soaked, weighing on him and threatening to refreeze as the wind continued. Conri turned and saw the shadow retreating into the blurry trees far ahead.

Inhaling a deep breath, readying his lungs, he felt himself shout. A ringing sound erupted from his throat. 

Instantly this winter horrorland was a brick wall. Littered with poster and the rough texture phasing through the once curved and limp shapes of dead leaves. His tank top and shorts were drenched in sweat under his bedsheets that previously felt like mountains of snow. The cellphone on the nightstand ringing a synth like bass similar as Conri sat in his bed recoiling from another nightmare. He let the alarm continue to fill his ears as he stared out the window to find overcast skies, with thin early rays of sun poking through. No snow today. 

Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the footlength mirror that leaned against a corner of his apartment, studying his condition to reassure him he wasn't still dreaming. His olive skin wasn't dull or ashen, beneath his green eyes were faded purple splotches, he had strands of hair sticking up in wild directions and on his ears were all eight piercings. When he was satisfied, he grabbed the phone, silenced the ringing then grabbed his glasses. The tired reflection came into clearer view once his lenses were on causing him to let out several breaths of relief. Perhaps this was karma for not being truthful with Dr. Bromley. 

"Fuck." 

His early morning voice was gravely and in desperate need of water, but he heard it.