Archer White

The disturbance to her universe had gone unnoticed. Her son, 17 years old, had witnessed the romanticized seduction of his mother with pretty words and the strum of a guitar. She had made a garden of the house, grass growing on the walls, the ceiling, the roof. Flowers, the very ones she swore smelled exactly like her son. Her dreams were always a lush garden, her safe place.

Selflessly, he had pushed his father from his mother’s embrace. Tried to push him from her consciousness entirely. Not once did she flinch as the incubus stumbled backward, disappearing like steam. Her face fell to her hands, and she wept. Not once did she understand she was dreaming. Not once did she look him in the eyes.

And here this stranger was, taking Hector by the hand, looking at him, acknowledging him. Knowing this wasn’t real didn’t silence the noise, or erase the expectation to breathe, or the texture of the ground as he was forced to his knees. The desperate man smelled of body odor, iron, cotton, and metal. A vivid dreamer he was. How unfortunate for one suffering the relapse of their own hell.

Was it his duty of care to end this, he wondered. How many times must he ruminate before coming to a decision?

Instinct put him back on his feet, following orders into the unknown of the house. Whatever fresh misery awaited them, Hector intended to get ahead of it.

Slowly, he breathed in. As slowly as he breathed in this world, so too did he in the comfort of his bed. He would exhale his own magic, his own intent, and would soften this house before opening his eyes. He would make the walls sage green, the least depressing color he knew, and push back the screams, the moans, the pleas. There would be no blood in this house. He would not allow it.

Leave that outside.

He couldn't!

He fell back into the house, stumbling on his feet and pull the door shut with him. He was not graceful as he slid on his heels and fell to one knee. Both hands gripped the handle tightly to pin it closed. Terrified that the war would come banging on the door and tear it down.

Inside felt... different. Though he couldn't exactly place it now. The coloring seemed off but maybe it was dark. The couch and chairs were just as he remembered it. The front door opened into their living space, with the kitchen attached off to the right.

That room was pitch black, dripping with shadow, and he was thankful for that.

"You're welcome." He assured the younger man. Eventually getting himself to his knees and unaware how his pants had torn. Somehow coming through the door looking more dirtied and bloodied from a battle he scraped by in. Yet he was on the other side, not grievously injured.

What should they do? What could they do now?

He found himself staring and eventually defaulted. "I should pour us drinks." He nodded and began to walk about the living room. His gun he had abandoned on the porch had manifested in his hand. A heavy weight he could not escape in the dream world, always attached to him somehow.

He dropped it on the couch and began to pull out his father's whiskey bottle along with two short glasses. He gave Hector a glance from the corner of his eye, judging how much he would need and decided to give him one shot, while Archer took three.