I am blind.

[Lamora]

No, not blind. Deaf. No, not deaf. Falling. No, not falling. Drowning. An abyss, its magnitude unfathomable. It stretches on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on. Impossibly so. Its vastness shrinks me. I curl around myself. A babe. Cowering. Panic coats my mind like an oil, thoughts shedding from it. Tears shedding from eyes. Closed. Afraid. I remember I must see. I remember I have been here before. With great effort, I open them.

Insanity drives into my mind like a wedge, splitting, ripping. Filling me. I blink, trying to find sense. To find anything. I want to wake up. I need to wake up. I will die here, I know that now. I am dying. I scream, muted. I tear at my face. I feel it burning. I am dying. I am dying. I can feel my bones twisting, folded like parchment. My heart thrumb crumbles mountains in its quake. I am dying. My tongue rolls. Stretches. Escapes. A great serpent come to life. I need to wake up. Pain. Oh, the pain. Please. I feel my skin like white fire. I see it bubble, puss. I feel my eyes quiver. Boil. Burst.

...

I see a mother. She is sitting upon an oak wood chair. Crafted by a man named Jeremy Cawls. She is forty and three. She is afraid. Her husband is ill but that is not why she is afraid. Her daughter is to be married. She does not approve. She has died of cough twelve weeks before her sixtieth name day. She is a grandmother. Her husband dies eight years later.

I see a dog. He is making his rounds about town. Eager for the scraps that await him. The gentle, brief contact. A woman calls him Brutus. A boy calls him Shag. A drunk kicks him away. He is loved. His leg is broken. He is in a dug canal. The workers find him in the morning. He is dead.

I see a grey sky. A black pool of ichor. Withered hands sprouting from below. There is another here. I can feel it. I look for them greedily. Hungrily. I feel its thirst. I find nothing. They are gone.

I see a man. He is worried about the extended hours his overseer has called for in the coming days. His boots are worn. His feet are sick. He hides it. His brother is visiting in a week. He wants to go into the city and buy some fine silverware to impress him. He doesn’t. He is dead.

I see myself. No. Another. Young. Handsome. He waits patiently. The roaring sounds of engine. Billows of steam. He will never take the ride.

I see a pale throne stark against an amber tree. Thirteen pillars rise monolithic behind. A crown of bone, cast in gold, sits upon it. I flee.

I see my brother. He is sitting. Just sitting. The place is unfamiliar but I know it. I have been here many times. A tent. The sounds of footsteps, clang of metal. He is frightened of what is to come. He tries to hide it. He fails. He is dead. Another stands in his place. A lie. I love him still.

I see Constantine. He makes long work of wiping the bar. Worry drapes him like a cloak. Seeping in. Sweet. I take pleasure in it. I do not know why. He wipes.

I see Drusilla. She is hiding. A girl, an ashen shadow stretches long. She is there. I want to reach out. I don’t.

I see fire. Inferno. A man set aflame. Scorching like a beacon. Blinding radiance. I reel, shriek.

I see Adalar. He is laughing, his smile becomes my own.

I see Locke. He is a wolf. Vapor puffs from his nostrils. He pads towards me. He sees me. He is hunting me.

I see my father. Arms jointed like a spider. A hook in each hand. They dig in.

I see my mother. She is dead.

I see my beloved. She is dead.

I see Locke. He is dead.

I see Adalar. He is dead.

I see Drusilla. She is dead.

I see Constantine. He is dead.

I see my brother. He is dead.

I see myself. I am dead. I am dying. I can feel it.

I see a mother. She is sitting upon a pale white throne stark against an amber tree. Crafted by a man named Jeremy Cawls. She is forty and three. She eager for the scraps that await her. A golden crown crests her brow. Her brother is visiting in a week. Withered hands sprout up from the ichor. One of them is mine. She is afraid of what is to come. She is on fire. Radiance. She waits patiently. She is hiding. She is a wolf. She is wiping. Something. A hook. There is another here. Her feet are sick. She is my brother. He sees me. He is laughing.

I wake up.