You look at the stack of books.

Coping with trauma. Living with PTSD. Readjustment. All that kind of shit. But you knew this would happen. You knew you would need these eventually.

You could have ordered this off the Internet, express, and waited. But waiting seemed redundant, with so much time.

You must've looked like hell at the bookstore, back when this all began. Disheveled, dark circles under the eyes, buying a stack of self-help autopsychology bullshit. But you didn't really care. When the cashier stammered out the price, you threw him a double-handful of twenties and left. Keep the change.

So here you are, sitting on your bed, running your eyes up and down a tower of printed paper. You could've looked up all of this online, of course, but you needed something solid. Something real to hold and touch. Something to ground you to right-here-right-now.

You pick one up, smooth out the dustcover. You can't believe you're doing this. You don't look at the cover—you just turn to a random page, start reading.

Your brow furrows. Did you... get the wrong book? This isn't even English. You don't recognize—

The words swarm and sway like insects in front of your eyes, rearranging. You see the word 'memory' and drop the book. It jackknifes on the carpet.

You grip your skull in your hands, massaging your temples. You sniff, feel a nosebleed coming on. You grit your—

No. Stay here. Stay.

You slowly unclench your jaw.

There you go.

Count to three. Inhale. Count to three. Exhale.

You won't be avenging anyone if you can't fucking read.

0-0-0-0-0-0

When you were younger, you were always baffled when your teachers talked about the 'discovery' of fire.

Like something so natural is something to be discovered.

But you wondered, then, what it would be like—to stumble across that bright light and intense heat, and to have never seen it before.

To see fire for the first time. To see it for what it was. Not study or research or understand it, but see it.

You'd never understand, your young self resignedly decided.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You look down.

It's all burning.

The city is in flames. As far as you can see, the world burns. The sky is black with smoke, embers falling like rain. Your eyes sting, your lungs seize—but you can't help but look.

A dog, its fur scorched to nothingness, its skin blackened, trots up to you on spindly limbs. It looks up, its red eyes shining like a dying sun.

"COME AND SEE," it whispers.

You do.

You descend into the city. All is burning, all is aflame, all is bright. Color is unknown; there is only the black of char and grey of ash and the red of fire. No orange or yellow; only an intense, excruciating red, a red that turns blood away from the canvas.

The buildings collapse, one after the other. When one building falls, a great billowing pillar of smoke and swirling fire rises in its stead. The streets crack apart underneath your feet, rising and falling unevenly.

People—no, what once were people—reach out to you, weeping, screaming, cursing, begging. They reach their hands out.

You reach back.

When you touch them, they crumble to cinders and scatter into the searing wind. Their shadows are blasted into the ground.

The dog, its black skin taut over sharp bones, turns its sleek glassy head to look at you. Its white teeth shine like distant stars.

"COME AND SEE," it whispers, and walks into the flames.

But the flames are too hot. You stand, alone.

Always alone.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You open your eyes.

You don't get up. You lay there, staring at the wall.

The first time you sleep in two normal days, and the dream comes back to you. Of course.

You sit up on your bed, letting the covers pool in your lap. You squint at the clock. Fuzzy blue glow becomes four AM.

That dream has followed you ever since you learned you could... well, REGRESS. At first it scared you. Then it made you wary of dogs. But now, it evokes curiosity and deep dread in equal parts.

It can't be a premonition. That's absurd. Entire cities don't go up in flames, and people don't just disintegrate, and dogs don't fucking talk.

You run a hand over your eyes, picking at the dark red crust clinging to your lashes.

Then again, you have reason to be much less of a skeptic as of late.