Insight (Web of Hearts and Souls #1)(2)

I stood, bracing myself for what I knew would happen. A tall, dark figure emerged from the shadows, his contemptuous laugh echoing through the darkness. He has been in every nightmare I’ve ever had, taunting me, trying to force me to succumb to him. His face is always hidden by the darkness. The dragon tattooed on the inside of his arm told me he was the same one. This figure was once a child, but now, both young adults, we played the game that brought only him pleasure. He crept closer to me, laughing under his breath. He then reached for me. I knew from my previous nightmares that a burning white light was about to push right through me. I crossed my hands in front of my face, blocking the surge of light.

When the light did not come, I slowly lowered my hands. The figure was standing just in front of me. I still could not see his face, but I could feel his eyes searching over me. He grasped my wrist, where I have a tattoo of an Ankh, a beautiful cross that opens at the top with a loop. My instinct was to pull away, but I could not make my mind and body agree. With his touch, I felt a hypnotizing, warm sensation that eased through my wrist, up my arm, and circled through my body taking the weight off my chest. His thumb traced over the cross. I sensed him smirk.

“This is true…I will find you now,” he said in a deep, controlled voice. He pressed his thumb in the center of the loop. The warm sensation turned into a blazing burn. I screamed through the pain, finally waking.

My screams brought my father into my room. He’s always the first person to respond when I wake in the night.

I’ve never told my parents the details of the nightmares. Since before I can remember, I’ve always felt the emotions of the people around me as if they were my own. If I told him how scared I really was, I would have to feel his fear as well as my own, so putting the event behind me seemed much simpler.

“Willow, wake up,” my father said in a deep heartfelt tone. He’s always had a calm feeling to him.

My eyes flew open as I sat up hastily, finding myself safely in my own room—right where I belonged. I grabbed my wrist, still feeling the pain not understanding why I still felt the pain if I was safe and sound.

“You haven’t had one of those dreams in a while,” my father said, turning on the lamp.

The last one I’d had came on the eve of my eighteenth birthday in November. It was now mid-August. We’d all hoped I’d simply grow out of them. It seemed, though, the odd characteristics that I developed during my childhood would never really leave me. Awesome. Not.

“I don’t understand. The new moon was two days ago,” my father murmured.

When I was a child, I had nightmares with each new moon. So, I’d fallen asleep that night without a fear in the world, thinking I’d successfully passed through another month without having to face that figure. It seems, though, that he will always be connected to me. Why? That question plagues me.

“I’m all right, Dad. Really.”

My father was full of fear now. I glanced at him. His hazel eyes had turned to a shade of brown as they always do when he’s concerned about something. He shook his head slowly, not agreeing with me.

“Let me see your wrist,” he said quietly.

My father is Dr. Jason Haywood. He always seems to know if I’m hurting more than I let on. I’ve never been able to fake myself well, or sick, for that matter.

When I got the tattoo of the Ankh, my mother, Grace, was furious. She grounded me for the first time in my life. My father, though, simply asked why I’d chosen that one. I never really had an answer. The symbol stood for eternal life, which was something I’ve always found fascinating. My friends were picking out butterflies and flowers, but the Ankh seemed more fitting for me.

I slowly uncovered my wrist, expecting to see a burn. Instead, inside the loop at the top of the Ankh was a small star. I felt my father’s shock, fear, and disbelief. My heart hammered in my chest as I tried to understand how that dream chased me into the sanctuary of my life. In a panic I pushed past my father.

“Where are you going?” he asked, standing to follow me.

“I just want to wash my face, Dad. I’m fine. Go back to bed,” I threw over my shoulder, trying to block his emotions.

The bathroom was next to my room. I closed the door behind me, rushed to the sink, and began trying to scrub away the star. I couldn’t comprehend it. I didn’t understand what I’d done to deserve this. Why do I have to be so different?

Feeling the emotions of the ones around me isn’t the only aspect of my gift. While I’m awake, I can also see images of the people who are not here. They all need my help and are seeking someone to comfort them, so I touch them and somehow give them the emotion they’re craving. With each touch, I’m taken to wherever they may be. When I release them, I’m pulled back into my reality.

I’ve never understood why they could not see me, where I went, or how I even managed to do what I did. Every day I’m haunted by these questions. When the nightmares stopped a few months back, the images seemed to fade as well. Since helping the images is the only thing that makes sense about what I can do, I channeled my aggression through painting, trying to capture the emotions I’d changed. This gave me the desire to help again. It gave me the will to endure this cruel fate.

Recently, though, I put my brush down and haven’t so much as doodled on a napkin since. My mother believes I have a creative block. She’s an artist, too, and sees my painting as a rare talent. I never had the nerve to tell her that it was simply a crutch I used to cope with the wicked war my soul fights with each breath I take.