To sleep, perchance to dream (Part I)
This was familiar to him. He was standing at the demonstration table of the classroom. The components of the potion lay arranged before him neatly. What was he preparing again? He looked at the components. Organs. He took one, placed it in the preparation basin and began cutting into it. Blood poured out from the organ. Who knew there could so much blood in a human being? He picked up another. He could not stop cutting.
There was so much blood. It was so red it was black. It filled the preparation basin and overflowed onto the demonstration table. His hands were coated to the elbow. His sleeves were soaked. He heard his name. The knife clattered to the ground. Then silence, and a dripping sound. He looked down. Blood was dripping off the table. It dripped onto the ground, onto his shoes, onto the hem of his robes.
He looked up. The classroom had been empty, but now it was filled with students. He looked at them. They looked at him. He recognised their faces, the ones he had taught over the years. They could see him standing in the pool of blood. They knew the truth. They were filled with hatred and contempt for him. He was humiliated, publicly exposed before their scornful gazes. He could not speak. He could not defend himself. He had to escape. He looked to the door.
And she stood there, young as she had been the very last time they had spoken. Their eyes met.
He always woke up at that point.