By AllyTrish34, inspired by the FantasTeen novel of the same name. Unlike the other Lucid Dream chapters, this one is told from Devin Verona's perspective.
I wake up to see white light. Only white light. White light everywhere.
I hear a sound from across my left. Someone touches my hand. I struggle to move my head, to look over my shoulder.
Rocky sits next to me, worriedly looking at me.
"Rocky..." I say, saying his name, but my voice comes out high and inaudible. Every time I speak, it always feels like I've swallowed a handful of jagged glass shards.—
Rocky's eyes spring open, beginning to scream. "Dad! Dad! Devin's wide awake! Dad, he knows my name!"
I'm still trying to adapt my vision with the contrasting view: bright light, dark skies outside. Bright light shines like a pulsar in my eyes. People all around me cheer, cry in joy, pray to God, and offer me medical scholarships. I drink water, then a little honey. I try to speak, but the result is in vain. My head pounds, hard.
Rocky's eyes shine brightly like a lit-up LED light. I can't imagine being him: living for six years, without me as his big brother; totally a whole other story, as opposed to my dream. He squeezes my hand. I realize afterward, he's never going to leave my side, ever.
"How do you know my name, Dev? Did you hear me talking to you?" he asks.
I shake my head, grinning weakly. He holds out a black pen and a sheet of lined paper, the kind that you see in most notebooks. "Can you write? Or, are you too dizzy?" he asks softly. He's just like the Rocky in my dream: kind-hearted, gentle, sweetest kid I've ever known.
I smile, trying to move my hand. Difficult; I have let it paralyzed for years. But this time, I ace this. I write:
I was dreaming.
* * *
After a few months waking up from a coma, I'm capable of doing my daily chores as I used to. Waking up from a coma isn't like in movies; you can't jump around and run straight away. You can't talk straight away, too; everything restores during its gradual process, because your body — at least, my body — was left rusted for three years.
Rocky plunks himself on my right, reading a piece of neatly handwritten, A'd paper. This kid is the real prodigy, with an IQ of 170.
I look over my shoulder, walking toward him slowly. "What's that?"
Rocky points to the first paragraph and reads the first sentence aloud: "The human body and psyche are systems that cooperate with magic. Together, they can create miracles." He looks at me, grinning widely. "I wrote all about you and what you underwent in your subconscious while you were comatose. Look, I got an A."
I roll my eyes. "Seriously, you'd even get an A, even if you don't write about me. You should write about something else, like Disneyland or summer/winter holidays, like other first graders. You know things about Disneyland and school holidays."
Rocky rolls his eyes back. "What should I tell 'em about Disneyland and school holidays?"
I grin rather sheepishly. "I dunno. You're the genius, so you decide."
Rocky smiles, following me. I'm painting a picture. My talents in my dreamland aren't all brought to the real world — at least, not yet. I can still play the classical piano, the only musical instrument I still remember how to play. I know everything that happened in my dream, but issues centered on physical reaction? That's a whole other story. I'm still in adaptation process; moving normally is still something I've got to get used to, let alone playing tennis or swimming. But, I can recall all the events in my dream. Plus, I didn't wake up and act like a five-year-old, like most people who have been in a coma for years do. Booyakasha! I don't want to be a sixteen-year-old — unfortunately, time in my dream and in the real world passes by the same way — who acts like a thirteen-year-old.
And I can't hear people's thoughts and sounds from afar. I can no longer see wraiths or feel their presence. I don't know what that means, or whether it's nice or gnarly. Despite all that, I'm still a werewolf.
My brush sweeps across my bone-white canvas, staining pale colors of different spectra.
I study my esthetic masterpiece for the last time. I visualize my sharp picturization of Yolanda Schneider. Her fair skin, freckled on her nose and with a birthmark that borders her left cheek, her marble-big blue eyes surrounded by long eyelashes; her long, thick curly blond hair, tied into a fishtail braid. Her lips, the only pink on her face, save when she's blushing. From some angles, she looks like Dove Cameron.
Rocky scans my painting with glowing eyes. "Who's her?"
I stay quiet for a moment. Rocky has known — everyone has known —about how I received my cornea transplantation. I have told everyone everything I felt in my dream, impressing my doctors. But no one knows a fourteen-year-old Yolanda Schneider in this world: here, Yolanda Schneider went to a better place when she was eleven.
I grin. "My imaginary friend, probably."
"Probably?" Rocky repeats. He studies it; not like a random six-year-old would. Then, he gawks at me sharply. "You know, I've been seeing her. In dreams and here. But she's not nice to you; she's evil. She shot you with a silver bullet. But she's too clever, she never gets arrested for committing illegal firearm possession."
My smile fades.
This kid knows.