Chapter 3

Waking up is usually energising. A new day starts, with endless possibilities and expectations. It is not any of these, however, when you wake up screaming.

I thrashed around, half expecting to feel the numbing pain, but all that was left was a fading memory and sweat-soaked bed sheets. This was getting worse with each day. Being the third in a row, I didn't want to know what would come next.

I sighed and slowly got up. At least there was an advantage to these nightmares. I didn't need an alarm clock. Looking through the open window, I patted myself on my head. I think I was expecting to wake up like this. I believe if you have fresh air to inhale, your sleep will be more peaceful. Or not. Why is it that fate is constantly trying to prove me wrong? I stretched and left the room.

In the bathroom I gazed into the mirror above the sink. One could say that I would have got used to my own reflection by now, but it'd be an understatement to say the least. Bright eyes stared back at me, eyes full of sorrow. No, I am not getting melancholic. It was how I looked at the world, back then. Other than that, I could say that I had average features–brown hair and brown eyes, lean and agile–but ever since my teen years I'd always wanted silvery hair. Don't ask me why, maybe I was a fan of Tolkien and I hypnotised myself to strive for it in the future. And yes, I almost forgot. There was something strange about my left cheek. On it, there were three lines, branching out of a somewhat larger base – something like a very small tree, except its branches went across each other, curving upon themselves and the vertical base line. People said it's a birthmark, but quite frankly I've never seen anything like it. Maybe that was the reason I liked to have silvery hair; something to go along nicely with the scar. Something to set me apart. Something to attract attention, as if being the sore thumb wasn't enough.

I glanced around–found my watch on a small shelf near the door–and seeing that everything was in order, did my usual morning chores and went out to the small hall.

Feeling just a tingle of hunger, I decided against eating at home. I could always eat in my office, since I usually arrived about an hour before the official eight o'clock. Besides, it was more pleasant outside. I got dressed–just plain jeans and a white shirt–and looked around. Mobile phone, keys, wallet, a couple of documents I'd need: everything was OK. I started whistling a small tune as I stepped outside and quietly closed the door behind me. The flat I lived in appeared in better condition on the outside than it really was. There were 7 others besides mine–luckily the neighbours were quiet–but sometimes I wondered why everything I had looked at seemed so ... dull. Dull colleagues, dull flats, dull life ... What if it would be different for a change? I didn't need excitement every day, but ... why did I have to endure this dullness?

The weather seemed to listen to my prayers. I generally like winter the best, at least I'm not melting, but this time it was something acceptable even though it had just turned into autumn. I started strolling down the street, feeling the refreshing breeze on my cheeks, enjoying the dawn as everyone should at least once in a while. According to my watch, I had almost two hours left – plenty to have a pleasant walk and a morning meal.

A small park extended to my left, a perfect place for young couples to hang out – and there they were. Two people sitting on a bench, talking. Maybe a bit early for my taste, but then, we are not the same. A chubby man, not older than 25 and a girl beyond my wildest imagination. They hadn't noticed me, although I'm sure I was an amusing spectacle standing there, gaping. The guy could have passed as an average citizen, but the girl ... I only saw her from half profile as she faced him, but even that was breathtaking. I remembered what my literature professor had told me once: "Literature is a fine art. But it would take years and years to analyse a single poem, to say the least." I thought I understood her back then, but at that moment, standing there and staring at that beauty, I realised I was wrong. The things that single cheek evoked could fill a book, if not more. Gentle, yet powerful, confident and strikingly innocent, as if everything she gazed on had a hidden beauty of its own. Her shoulder went up and down, as if shrugging. Her image tickled something at the back of my mind, but I was too busy staring to notice.