“I told you it would be pointless.”

Della sighs deeply, looking straight ahead at the road. The only reason I went to this therapist session was for her, but I don’t know what else she expected. I’ve been on medication they have prescribed before, and it did nothing but give me serious anxiety until I could no longer deal with it. Since then, Della has been looking for other options. 

“He didn’t say anything different?” She questions, giving me a skeptical glance. I nod at her to concentrate on her driving. It hasn’t rained this heavily in Fate’s Territory since I first came here three years ago from Death’s realm. 

I shrug, fiddling with the air conditioning absentmindedly. “Same old diagnosis. He might have said something about it maybe being magic. Crazy old man.”

Della snaps her attention to me. 

“Watch where you’re going would you? I might hate these dreams but I’m not planning on dying today,” I comment. Della looks back at the road, but her knuckles clutching the steering wheel are white, and there is a frown etched into her forehead. 

“Magic? You know that’s not much of a stretch,” she comments. A laugh almost slips out of my mouth at her statement. 

“Aren’t you meant to be the practical one?” I ask her. 

“Come on Lu, it’s not that odd is it? I mean, we live in the land of Fate. You’ve been in the 

immortal realm for three years, and I know you’ve witnessed magic before,” Della says, turning down my street. She’s right. I’ve witnessed petty magic from people at street markets, but nothing impressive. 

Della pulls up my driveway, parking the car in front of the garage. I love my home. Luckily I have a great job that has meant I can live in a beautiful house on the shoreline. Fate has the best territory in the immortal realm, which is something I stand by. Especially when I get to watch sailboats on a good day drift into the nearby dock. 

“All I’m saying, is that this has nothing to do with magic. It's probably just my messed up mind,” I comment, popping the door open. 

Rain mists against my face and I fumble with my keys, pushing my front door open. Della follows me inside, cursing the weather, wiping water off her face. Rain visits here so often, I’m quite enjoying this strange weather. 

“You should really clean up in here,” Della comments. 

“I think it looks fine in here,” I mutter, moving into the living room and I pull off my jacket. Maybe it could be decluttered in here, but I like my space. It’s creative in my opinion, which I wouldn’t expect my perfectionist sister to understand. 

Della picks up a stack of books, weighing it in her arms. “I mean, do you even read any of these? You’re meant to be a writer, not a book critic.”

Taking the books from her arms, I stumble over to one of my bookshelves. The wood already is sagging from the weight of my current collection. There’s something so addicting about collecting books. Coming to the immortal realm uncovered many authors I loved in the mortal world who continued their work afterwards. 

“They are for inspiration,” I reason. 

“Do you ever leave this house?” Della questions. Turning around, I narrow my eyes on her. She stands there, hands on her hips, looking concerned. 

“I don’t have enough time in the day to go out with my wine drinking friends to east low fat hummus while we whisper about attractive guys who come into the bar,” I remind her, watch her raise an eyebrow at me. Della has a surprising amount of time and money which she still won’t share with me on its origin. 

Della collapses onto my couch, resting her head back. I know she cares, but she gets too much enjoyment out of coming to my house to criticise my livelihood. She still claims writing isn’t a real career. It’s done good for me so far. 

“You haven’t even tried to make friends, or even go on a date. I’ve seen what you’ve downloaded on your computer, so don’t act like it isn’t on your mind,” Fella comments. 

I swallow despite my dry mouth. 

“Go on a date and have someone mess up my intricate schedule?” I question. It’s an excuse that my oldest sister of all people can see right through. She knows I’m not as confident and beautiful as she is. Maybe if I had that perfectly pouting mouth and big green eyes things like dating would be easier. 

It’s most common for mortals who leave the Death realm to either lose touch with their mate, or lose all chance to ever meet them. So that leaves dating to become a very popular phenomenon. I wouldn’t say in very interested in that. 

“You could try. Wouldn’t it make for a good story?” She asks, ignoring my deadpan expression. “You can’t let these terrible dreams get the best of you.”

I know, within me, that she’s right. 

Della doesn’t stick around long. Apparently she has to head back to clean up her house, which I know is an underlying hint. It leaves me to sit in my favourite spot to look out the window, holding a leather bound book in my hand that I doubt I’ll open. I’m more fascinated by the raining littering the window, blocking my gaze out to the sea. 

I’m writing a romance novel at the moment that is troubling me. With Della’s suggestion stuck inside my head, I’m left not knowing what to do. 

Standing up, I pick up my laptop before settling into the chair. The site is already up on a tingle tab when I open my computer. I usually have it open, but never search the site. It always feel so wrong, as if I’m committing some horrific sin. 

I need to get over this. 

Finally, I sigh deeply, clicking onto the site. Mindlessly, I shift through profiles on people who live in the area. This seems so foolish and pointless. None of these people are going to want to go on a date with me. The kind of guy I want wouldn’t like that. 

“What was I thinking?” I mutter, setting my laptop on the table as I stand. As usual, Della gets into my head, just like she wants to do. 

Just as I get up to make coffee, my computer dings. 

Someone has messaged me. Falling back into my chair, I realise a guy named David has messaged me. His profile shows a young, professional looking man who is admittedly attractive. He’s simply greeted me in his message, so I quickly type back. Soon enough, we are having a full blown conversation, and I swear at a few point, he made me smile. 

We set up to meet each other for coffee at a nearby cafe. By the time the conversation ended, I was blushing and smiling, feeling foolish in myself. 

I’m okay on my own. But this could be fun. 

The rest of the day I spend writing, taking this new found inspiration to the page, which is treating me well. I don’t stop until midnight. It’s a trend of mine to try sleep late, as if it’s going to help avoid getting the dream. It has never worked. 

Glancing at my bedside table, I see the drawing a therapist made of one of the men in my dream. Those silver eyes stare at me. 

“See you in a bit,” I murmur, before switching my lamp off. 

Falling asleep is always the best part. The calm before the storm. There’s maybe an hour of blissful, serene sleep with nothing going on, until all my vision becomes a blurry flurry of silver. Slowly, it begins to turn into a pair of eyes, and then, the world forms around me, and they eyes become apart of the man standing in front of me. 

I notice something is different immediately. 

First of all, I have complete feeling and control over what my mind is consciously thinking. It’s so real, that if it weren’t for the fog in my head and the slight blurring line around his figure, I would have assumed I’ve woken up tied down to a chair in a dark room. 

I know this man. Not from real life, but his recurring appearance in my dreams. He’s the first man with the silver eyes. He has reddish brown hair and honey skin. The tattoos that streak up his arm are unfamiliar, not creating any pattern in familiar with. If he were actually a real person, I would notice him immediately. 

Looking down, I’m tied down to a chair. The man, wordlessly watches me as I remain helpless, before he turns away from me, and walks into the shadowy darkness. 

I’m stuck. 

Reality hits me right in the face. I’m awake. My eyes open, and I look around, shielding myself from the strip of sunlight that streams in through my partially open curtains. 

Morning already. 

Something is wrong. I’ve never had a dream as simple as that. I’ve never been tied up against my will like that until I woke, as if I were being held hostage within my own mind. Shaking my head, I sit up, glancing at my phone. 

It’s midday. Midday. I was meant to meet David at ten. 

I have three messages asking if I were coming. Quickly I text him back, but there’s little point. 

How did I not wake up. Some horrible gut feeling that I had that dream for a reason. Protection Status