/| Sixty-Seventh Day, Friday, First Year - July 11 |\
/| Secret |\
I opened my eyes slowly, stirring out of my unconsciousness, grumbling a bit, pained by this awaking.
I looked around with my sleepy eyes and observed the same circular, damaged room from last time.
I got up, staring at my surrounding with marvel, searching for any changes, but there wasn't any. Well, not in plain sight, a least.
The wooden walls and door were still as cracked, there was still as much as mouldiness on the floor. There were still eight doors, with the same name on it, and there was this stool.
The first thing I tried to do was to open one of the doors, so, I went for the first one in my mind: Jason's one.
I turned the knob, but it didn't budge, it was locked from the other side. I groaned and went to open the others one's door, but none budge; they were all locked.
I sighed sharply, annoyed, and backed off from one of the doors, and stumbled on something unsteady. I jumped, glancing behind me.
There was this old wooden furniture. It shook under the push, and I was sure that it was about to collapse.
The clock was still there, showing 4:28, but, to my surprise, the picture wasn't there any more.
No, something replaced it, and it wasn't a key to unlock the other doors.
There was a small, rusty oil lamp, lightening another small object. It was a book, the cover was in dark leather, it wasn't thick, and it seemed old, with it yellowish, crumpled pages.
I took it hesitantly in my hand, delicately dusting the cover to discover the title. It was a simple word; key.
Key? The key to what?
I opened the book, to notice that it was bookmarked with a dried flower.
A rose, I guessed.
It was blackened, like if, somehow, it has been burned and all that remains is ashes, but the ashes were firm. Pretty strange, I won't deny.
I flipped the pages until I came to the bookmarked page. Weirdly enough, all the other pages seemed blank, nothing was written.
As I reached the page, it has some words written in an unknown language, inscribed in a graceful, violet writing.
I squinted my eyes, intrigued by this poem in this unfamiliar language. I looked around myself, nothing else to do; all the door were locked, and the only thing I could do was to read this composition.
I wasn't sure how to pronounce, but I think I did well.
It looked like this, as I remember:
'Comme un rêve, je t'impressionne,
Comme la réalité, je te surprend,
YOU ARE READING
Odd Dreams (Child Slashers x Reader) (Abandoned)
Fanfiction(just so you know, i wrote this when I was 13. I'm not stopping you, tho ;) ) You're (Y/N), a young eighteen-years-old lady, that, after long and stressful contemplation and picking among many choices, chosen to become a paediatrician or child psych...
