Dystopia

-9

It was cold, like ice beneath his sweaty fingertips.

His heart was racing, fingers fidgeting; it was sporadic, his breath and mind alike.

The floor was black, looking nothing close to pigment at all really, just black in the sense that it was empty, that it was almost nonexistent. Like William was just hanging there, by an invisible thread, dwindling over space in all its glory of being both empty and full all at once.

Yet, there was some kind of wall in front of him. He could see it now, it was white, in the loosest form of its definition. Rather, a ghost of its color. Translucent, if that was a better description.

He gasped.

He was living it. And he, was trapped. Caught between the crystals of an anticipated nightmare.

He screamed.

But he was far too late, the prisms had already wrapped themselves around him, consuming him, the only difference being that this time, he was there, not watching from afar.

William pressed his face and fingers against the cold surface of his prison; the sensation being both new and known all at the same time for this nightmare was frequent, repetitive, but only now did he know what it was like to step in the shoes of a man who perished.

He breathed.

And with dark blue eyes, he saw it, focused, and attentive, and fearful, the evidence of his exhalation condensated upon those treacherous crystals.

William looked left, right, down, and up, up, up, where his prison walls seemed to extend. He was confined, that was already covered. Yet, gazing past the slight haze of milky white the walls seemed to be tinted by, he could make out a figure; faint, but still there.

William pressed his forehead against the wall, trying to get a better view.

And soon enough, he did.

But, oh how he wished he didn't as deranged scream fell from his parted lips, and soon enough, he was composed of fear just as much as he was of blood.

There was a body in the distance.

It lied slumped on the floor, ivory hair shading it's face, framing it, and painted a deep burgundy in certain areas.

There was a blood drawing from her mouth, pooling out onto the ground before her, and at the back of her skull, beneath all that wispy hair of hers, lied a small, bloody wound.

A bullet hole.

Its inflicter unknown and unseen, but it's victim evident and lifeless.

William knew, he knew for sure, but he just wished it wasn't true.

It was Elizabeth Crystal, dead, expressionless, and right there. The woman he loved, lying just how he left her.

But that wasn't the end of it, oh no, only in William's dreams.

There was another figure, further and hazy in the distance.

It was alive, as far as he could tell, but William was terrified within the way he found comfort knowing this, and also due to the fact that it was completely and utterly motionless.

If he looked close enough, he could see her entirely, with her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, and her brown eyes dull, lifeless, and ultimately dead.

"Camila..."  William whispered against the crystal, blurring the very surface of it.

She didn't reply. He wasn't expecting one, and the tables had turned in the most vicious and grisly fashion.