The house was such a pretty house. It had red bricks, green shingles, big windows, and all the little thing that make a home seem, well, homey. He was seeing it for the first time.

He looked down at himself. Big hands, awkward feet, white shirt. And they were beautiful to him, because he was seeing them for the first time.

Above him, three shapes hurdled out of the divinely blue sky. Three large shapes; their size astounded him. They flew upon wings of the blackest feather.

The door to the pretty, pretty house opened and he saw his mother, for the first time. He didn't notice the sag in her shoulders, or the bags beneath her eyes, or the droop in her body. He simply saw- her. And she was beautiful.

The black things were flying to him, and he was afraid.

*                                                          *                                                          *

Black was all her saw, before he realized he was awake. Black was all he saw for the last fourteen years of his life. The only escape he had from his prison was the time he spent in his dreams. Dreams were his only connection to all the things in life that normal people took for granted.

He stood up, feeling for his clothes. He grabbed his walking stick and shuffled into the kitchen, sitting at the table. His mother was slowly stirring a bowl of oatmeal. The noise alerted him to her presence.

"I dreamed again."

His mother's hands began trembling, though he couldn't see it.

"I saw a really nice house. It had red brick and a green roof and I saw you and you were so pretty and…"

She was softly sobbing now. He picked up on the noise and brought his hands to her face. He traced the wrinkles and felt tears on his hand.

"Did you see any black in your dream?" she asked. He frowned.

"I did. They were big and were moving through the air. I was scared, but then I believed that they couldn't hurt me, and they didn't."

His eyes pricked with pain at these words. The pot crashed to the floor.

"His signal is coming over irregular. He might wake soon. You know what must be done."

Another man spoke these words. A stranger! He seemed to be talking with his mother, who was crying openly.

"They are coming. I cannot protect him."

His eyes, useless as they were, were suddenly streaked with agony. His hands were burning, burning away. His eyes were melting into pools of nothing. The pain was unbearable. He whimpered on the floor. Then-

Light.

The beautiful, beautiful light.

His vision was blurry. Tears messed his sight- glorious sight! There was a man staring at him.

"I'm too late."

Black things crashed through the walls of the house. Two shots and his mother was dead. The man had disappeared. He looked at the ceiling.

"This is it."

He braced his legs beneath him. The floor trembled. He pushed off and was flying.

A bullet entered his body, but he wasn't afraid. He believed, and that was all that mattered. The next one dug into his leg.

He opened his eyes, his new, magnificent eyes, and for a moment, believed. Believed that he could free himself from the mortal reins of this world. For an infinitesimal moment, he saw the real world.

The agent took aim at his head, and fired.

*                                                          *                                                          *

The question is, do you have to see to dream? Do you have to dream to believe? Do you have to believe, to see the real world?

*                                                          *                                                          *