Feathers That Won't Fly

Chapter I The Old Man

Azlyn awoke with a hammering chest and screaming lungs. She had dreamt about the old man. The only thing strange was that it wasn't a dream. Azlyn's soul had been inside this man. She breathed the slow, labored breath of the victim. His old, crippled age was her own. The only thing separating her from the old man was a feeling. Azlyn felt as if her body was trapped inside of his. She did not feel as if his body was her own. Azlyn is not a naive character in this tale; she knew she had been inside this man; she knew this was not a mere dream. Therefore, she knew there had been a murder on the other side of the Ashtonburn Library. Hence, the running. Azlyn ran passed bookcase and bookcase, but she wasn't quite skilled at completing "natural obstacle courses." As a result, she tripped. As a result of that, she fell on somebody.

"Watch out! What the hell are you doing anyway?" said a flustered young man. His cheeks were splotched with red and pink.

"Get out of my way! A man just died in the back! He--a monster killed him!" Azlyn screamed.

Okay, forget what I said about Azlyn not being a naive character. She's completely stupid. Rule number one about perceiving: don't tell ordinary people extraordinary things.

"Are you some kind of nut job?" the man asked. His eyes shifted, possibly looking for a way to escape.

"See for yourself!" Azlyn yelled. She then proceeded to grab the man's bony arm, dragging him towards the old man's murder scene.

Yup, she's totally crazy.

"Are you insane?! I'm calling the p--," the man started. He couldn't finish, but then again who would be able to finish when they are standing right in front of a pile of bones? Bones that were sucked so dry, it didn't appear as if they had ever been wearing flesh. Bones that were broken apart, the brown, mushy marrow seeping out. Bones that were clearly the mark of death.

"Oh my god, it's true," Azlyn said.

"What is? D-did you kill this man? What the hell is this?!" the man managed to get out. His face was no longer splotchy, but was now as pale as that horrible, translucent scotch tape.

"Do I look like a murderer to you?" Azlyn inquired.

"Uh yeah, you kinda do," said the man.

"Do you want proof? Stick your hand in that bookcase, but close your eyes. If you open them, it'll kill you, I think. That's how it seemed to work for the old man," Azlyn told the young man.

"No way, there's nothing in there. You're crazy!" the man replied.

Of course, a mixture of curiosity and fear that this crazy lady might flip out on him if he didn't do it, forced the young man to stick his arm in. Besides, there was nothing in there, right?

"Close your eyes!" Azlyn hissed.

"Alright, alright, they're closed!" the man said while squeezing his eyes shut.

Wrong. What, you're confused? Look at the last sentence with no dialogue. I answered my own question.

The young man's hand grazed something furry and warm. There was a strange substance on the creature's fur. It felt like dried blood. The young man yelped and ran away from the bookcase as fast as surprise could push him. Azlyn followed him closely behind. Neither of them spoke until they were at the café, which was located at the front of the library.

"Th-that was real," the young man pointed out.

"No sh-- Sherlock. What's your name?" Azlyn asked.

"My name is Oliver, Oliver Haddix. Who the hell are you?" Oliver asked.

"Well Haddix, I am Azlyn. My last name doesn't matter. In reality, I don't know who I am. In fact, I don't even know if I'm human. I had a dream about that old man--you know, the bones. The only problem was that it wasn't a dream. It felt real, like I was inside that man, watching his every move through his eyes. I know it was real," Azlyn replied.