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THE ANALOG CLOCK on my dresser ticked half past two in the morning. It's hand released an ever-so-simple click, lending me one last moment of serenity. Once it stroke once more, an unsteady voice woke me. A call of desperation. Hopelessly sorrowful. It's quintessence took up every molecule in the air, reflecting from each leading wall of the hall, leaving the cry to carry itself all the way through the gap under the door, and into my room.
Barley so much as a stir left me, before I was sitting myself up and pushing the thick comforter from my body. My feet hit the bitterly cold ground, and an unknown magnetic force pulled me through the dark hallway.
"Stop, please! You're killing her."
Another one of his nightmares.
My hand wrapped around the metal knob, then pushed past the door.
There he was; sweat rolling down his overheated body. Down the sides of his forehead — trailing against his neck, and stomach. His hair was stringy with perspiration, and he looked paler than ever. Under his eyes, rested prominent discoloration. Tears left a glistening trail down his shadowed face.
He let out a muffled sob, again. I feebly crawled onto his bed and leaned myself over him. Pressing my hands against his back, I shook the boy awake to pull him from this night terror. At the contact, he almost instantly opened his unbandaged eye and scanned his remaining pupil across the room. His lungs gasped for more air, while his body was wrecked with light tremors. Wherefore, I delicately pulled him up and let his head rest against my thighs.
"It was just a dream." I told him quietly. "Don't be sad."
A tear broke loose from his cheek. I felt it's warmth as it ran across the surface of my leg, and soaked into the bedsheets. His pillow was damp with the sombered dream.
"No." His voice was thick with pain. "It was real. My mom."
I placed my hand on his exposed back, tracing along the skin over his shoulder bone. "I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"
