A New World

Elara’s breath tore from her lungs, a raw, desperate gasp that clawed its way up her throat. It was the gasp of someone dragged from deep water, not the gentle sigh of a dream’s end. Her chest burned, a dull, throbbing ache settling deep in her bones, every muscle protesting as she lay tangled on something both soft and bumpy.

The air. It was alien. Not the stale perfume and cheap ale from the party, but a clean, cool dampness, earthy and green, like the world after a summer rain. Her eyelids fluttered open, vision blurring into a swirl of green, blue, and blinding gold. She blinked, hard, desperate to clear the haze.

Above, the sky stretched, an impossibly clear blue, vast and indifferent. Fat, fluffy clouds drifted by, slow as lazy sheep. The light that warmed her face felt different, too—not harsh or artificial, but gentle, dappled with dancing shadows. She lay in a field, not a neatly manicured lawn, but wild and untamed, the thick grass tickling her bare arms. Tiny yellow flowers dotted the vibrant green.

Her head pounded, a relentless drumbeat behind her eyes. Where was she? The party? The stairs? The sudden, encompassing darkness? None of it fit. She pushed herself up, a low groan escaping her lips as her muscles screamed in protest. She wore a long, rumpled brown cotton dress, smudged with dark dirt, and soft leather shoes. It wasn't hers. None of this was hers.

She scanned the horizon. The field stretched into the distance over hills. Closer, casting a vast, dark shadow across the sun-dappled grass, stood a tree. An ancient oak, its trunk thick and strong, branches twisting like gnarled arms reaching for the sky, bark rough and wrinkled like an old man's face. Not far beyond it lay an impenetrable line, a forest, a wall of millions of dark green leaves. It looked deep, forbidding, not the kind of woods you’d stroll through on a Sunday afternoon.

Elara stared, her mind a frantic scramble to piece together the fragments. One moment, falling. The next, here. In a field. With a giant tree. And a terrifying forest. It couldn’t be real. Her thoughts raced, a desperate search for a logical path back to the party, to Gary, to the quiet solitude of her apartment.

Before her brain could process a single coherent thought, before she could even find her footing, something rustled. A low, guttural growl, like a hungry dog, scraped against the sudden silence.

Elara’s eyes snapped to the sound.

A creature burst into view. Green. Ugly. Its skin, a mossy green, was bumpy and rough, like crocodile hide but softer. Beady, little eyes gleamed with a mean, hungry light from a flat nose, just two slits above a wide, toothy grin that showcased sharp, yellowish teeth. It was small, no taller than her waist, thin, with spindly arms and legs.

In one hand, it held a knife. A dagger. Rusty, the metal dull and pitted, but its point was wickedly, undeniably sharp.

The green thing didn’t hesitate. It lunged.

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It moved too fast, a horrifying blur of green and rusty steel. Elara didn't even have time to yelp, to think. One moment, it was a few feet away. The next, it was on her.

A scream tore from her throat. Not a polite social scream, but a raw, wild sound, full of pure, animal terror, a sound she never knew she possessed.

The dagger plunged.

A shocking, cold, sharp pain exploded in her chest, directly over her heart. It wasn't a stubbed toe or a bumped elbow. It was deep. Unbearable. Like a block of ice had slammed into her, melting into burning fire, all at once. Her eyes widened, fixed on the ugly green face above her. The blue sky spun as she felt herself fall back.

Then, darkness. It swallowed her whole, just like before.

Gasp!

Her eyes snapped open. The grass beneath her. The dappled sunlight. The ancient oak. The earthy smell.

And the goblin.

It stood there, in the exact same spot, its ugly green face still twisted into that mean, toothy grin. Beady eyes gleamed. The rusty dagger, poised in its spindly hand. Ready.

Elara screamed.

Again. A raw, desperate, hopeless sound. She pushed herself back, scrambling across the grass on her elbows, but the goblin was faster. It lunged.

The cold steel plunged. Sharp. Searing pain. The dizzying fall into blackness.

Gasp!

Back. Again. The same spot. Everything, precisely the same. The goblin, leering. The dagger, poised.

This wasn't a nightmare. This was real. And it was happening again. And again.

Terror clawed at her throat, a frantic, choking sensation. It demanded a scream, a cry, a retreat into a fetal curl until she simply ceased to exist. But something else, an unfamiliar heat, began to bubble up inside her, mixing with the fear. A frantic, burning desperation. She had to stop this. She had to get away.

Her eyes darted to the towering oak. Its thick, gnarled branches. Safety. If she could just reach it, climb it, maybe the goblin couldn't follow. It was her only hope.

On her next reappearance, no scream escaped her. Not at first. She scrambled to her feet, her aching muscles protesting with every movement, and launched herself towards the tree. Her legs pumped, burning, her arms flailed, pushing through the thick grass. The rough bark of the oak seemed impossibly far, even though it was only a short distance.

The goblin was a flash of green. Faster than she expected, surprisingly agile for its small size. It moved like a snake, twisting, turning, always cutting her off. Always, always between her and the tree.

She tried to fake it out, a desperate swerve left, then a sharp cut right. It didn't work. Each time, the goblin materialized, a horrible green wall. And each time, the rusty dagger plunged. The cold, brutal sting. The overwhelming pain. The sudden, suffocating darkness.

Gasp!

The cycle continued. Death after death. Elara stopped counting. The instinct to run, to dodge, to scramble, became her only focus. Each attempt ended the same way. The goblin’s dagger. The blackness. The gasp back to life.

Tears streamed down her face, hot and stinging, mixing with the dust and dirt on her cheeks. They weren't just tears of terror anymore. They were tears of utter frustration, of a deep, aching despair. This was impossible. This was a nightmare that simply wouldn't end.

Her lungs burned, a raw, fiery protest. Her legs felt like jelly, unresponsive, heavy. Her body was a constant symphony of aches, a dull throb in every joint. But more than the physical pain, the mental torment was crushing. The endless dying. The suffocating feeling of being trapped, with no discernible way out. Each time she woke, the first thing she saw was that awful green face, the glint of the rusty dagger. It was a constant, brutal reminder of her nightmare. It was the only thing that felt real in this impossible place. And it always, always, found her.