Itâs the same dream again. Iâm looking down at blood on my hands, blood smeared on clothes. My hands tremble as I try to decipher whose blood it is, but I canât. Itâs as if I have no memoryâno recollection of who I am or where Iâve beenâyet what Iâm going through feels awfully familiar.
I peer up, surrounded by tall, lurking tress and a dense fog. Iâm lost.
âWillow!â a man yells from a distance. âWillow, can ya hear me?â
This man sounds familiarâlike he wants to help me. My heart beats faster, reacting to his voice. I try to screamâto call out to whomever he is, but I canât.
I grab my throat but itâs wet and sticky. Pulling my hands back, I study themâmore blood is on them now, wetter, thicker. Itâs spilling from my throat. Iâm bleedingâ¦but why havenât I died yet?
âWillow!â the familiar voice shouts again and I stagger to a stand, stepping on sticks and twigs that snap. A soggy leaf glues itself to my bare foot, and the air becomes cooler. I try to find the voice, but I donât make it far.
Something grabs me from behind, its hands like ice, and I turn around to a figure in black. All I can see is their smile and the red eyes pointing upward at the edges like sharp crescents.
âGo to him,â the dark figure growls. âSo he can die.â