Once again, Owen found himself floating in a void. Time passed strangely in this state. He couldn’t tell if an hour or a year passed by. Perhaps even a clock wouldn’t be capable of recording time here. However, his experience in this void did not last long, for he suddenly plummeted deep into an invisible pit. Moments later, he instantly stopped. Muddled voices echoed in his ears. He then opened his eyes.

Dammit, not this dream again.

It was a familiar scene. Four blurry faces stood around him at the edge of a cornfield ripe for harvest. They talked and laughed without a care in the world while walking toward a robotic harvester spanning the entire width of the field. Although somewhat blurry to his mind’s eye, it stood tall like some sort of metallic warehouse on wheels.

Come on! Just wake up!

Like usual, nothing happened. The dream continued, forcing him to watch helplessly with full lucidity once again.

The people stopped near the machine. The tallest man started talking. Owen recalled that it was some sort of explanation about the machine, but the words jumbled together into nonsensical white noise. Even so, it didn’t matter. His small body, that of a child, dashed off into the cornfield against his will.

For once… please stop here…

As though to spite Owen’s plea, the dream sped along. He recalled the foolish intentions of his younger self. The words flowed into his mind.

I’ll go start it! Dad’ll be happy if I do it for him!

No, he won’t, Owen replied to his younger self despite knowing the words would never reach their target.

Behind him, his parents and siblings cried out for him to come back. His younger self didn’t listen. He wanted to make up for… make up for something. Whatever it was had been lost to time, but his younger self treated it like the most important thing in the world.

Before long, he was standing in front of the control panel used to launch the machine. His small hands tapped away on the buttons until figuring out how to start it.

Don’t do it.

Owen’s weak attempt at stopping himself failed to make even a slight difference. The familiar red warning screen popped up, though the words were blurred to his mind’s eyes, though he recalled it warning him of something about the emergency shutdown systems. Without a hint of concern, his younger self haphazardly skipped past the warning and started the machine. Even now, Owen could feel the delight in his younger self’s heart. It made him sick.

The machine lurched forward. In the dream, it screamed in his ears as thousands of reaping blades harvested the corn. Hundreds of stalks fell every second. His younger self hopped down from the stationary launching platform and sprinted over to the launching platform of the gathering machine which had a similar appearance to the harvester yet remained just as blurry.

Instead of saying anything this time, Owen simply closed his eyes in anticipation, not that closing his eyes actually did anything in this dream. It never did. No matter how many times he experienced this dream, it always transpired the exact same way without fail, and he was always forced to watch every second of it.

Next thing he knew, an all too familiar scream pierced his eardrums. How many times had he heard it? Hundreds? Thousands? Even if it was ten thousand, it still caused his heart to tremble.

In contrast, his younger self flinched. Scared, he faced the cornfield. He froze like a statue in the middle of winter. Another scream followed by urgent yelling deepened his fear. He ran out into the field, trampling corn underfoot. He looked around for his parents. They were nowhere to be found, so he ran closer and closer to the machine. Eventually, he could hear his father’s voice yelling to him over the roar of the rotating blades. Although the words were muddled in this dream, Owen knew his dad had been telling him to turn off the machine. He could only helplessly observe as his younger self failed to hear anything due to a growing fear of those blades.

Eventually, his younger self figured out what was happening and ran back to the launching platform. He turned it off. He ran back. Within that short time, the harvester passed over more than half of the cornfield. In a blink, he found himself sprinting across the field only a few meters away from the end of the machine with every intention of running around to the other side to receive a scolding from his parents.

Although his younger self did not immediately notice the splotches of red mush coating some of the fallen corn stalks, older Owen did. He very much did. He could see it all too clearly. Every inch of reddened ground was seared into his mind.

Meanwhile, his younger self barreled around the machine into the uncut corn stalks, obviously expecting to run into angry family members at any moment. But, it never happened. He ran back and forth until seeing movement beneath the machine near the end where he had run into the unharvested area of the cornfield. A woman’s hand stuck out from underneath, an ornate ring adorning her ring finger; both stained bright red.

Owen silently watched through the eyes of his younger self as he knelt next to the machine. For what felt like the millionth time, he met the dimming eyes of his mother. She stared back. Only a hint of life remained within them. Her lower body, maimed and bloodied, lay in pieces on and beneath the curved blades. On reflex, Owen’s younger self reeled back with a horrified expression, falling speechless on his rear.

His mother looked upward toward her youngest child. Somehow, through sheer will, her lips curled up into a comforting and motherly smile. She tried to reach out and comfort her baby boy, but her hand fell short. The remaining life ebbed away from her. Her body was still and lifeless, yet the expression on her face remained the same. It was that of a mother trying to comfort her child.

Dammit...

Seeing the same scene hundreds of times should have desensitized him to it, but guilt still shackled around his soul more tightly each time.

Owen’s younger self breathed heavily, not quite processing what had happened. A single word crawled out from between trembling lips. It was the only word Owen could hear clearly every time he relived this nightmare.

“Mommy?”

Only a gentle breeze rustling the nearby corn stalks responded. Tears welled up in the eyes of his younger self, mirroring the emotions of his older self. Sniffling, he crawled forward. Blood and dirt coated his palms. He lifted his mother’s lifeless hand into his own. Silence followed, allowing the guilt to seep ever deeper into the cracks of his heart. Hands coated with the blood of his own kin, his younger self cried. Grief as raw as an open heart fueled his tears. Unable to bear it, he spent every ounce of air in his lungs and wailed like the child he was.

“AAAAAAA-”

~~~~~~~~~~

“-AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

As always, Owen bolted upright from his recurring nightmare of a memory, finishing off the wail even if he didn’t want to. Salty tears streaked down the sides of his cheeks and over his cracked lips. Since he didn’t have a shirt, he reached over for the mirage blanket which was folded neatly on a small, rickety end table and wiped them away. Afterward, he clenched the soft fabric in his hand tightly enough to break someone’s arm and stared blankly at the other end of the couch he had fallen asleep on.

“Are you alright?” A sweet and tender voice asked from right next to him.

Still shaken by the dream he hadn’t seen in almost a year, Owen slowly shifted his gaze toward the speaker. There was a girl sitting on a stool next to the couch with a wet towel in hand. Her features were rather plain. Sandy brown hair rested over her shoulder in a neat braid. Hazel eyes stared at him with evident concern. Her face was small and her stature was short compared to what he was accustomed to. Perhaps her forehead could reach his ribs if they stood face to face.

After a brief moment of studying his apparent caretaker, Owen replied, “I’m fine.”

The girl nodded, obviously not wanting to pry into a stranger’s life. Considering she didn’t look a day over eighteen, she certainly carried herself well. Instead, she changed the subject.

“My husband brought you here last night, in case you don’t remember. Seems like you encountered Feverclaw in the forest.”

“Mhm.”

The girl sighed and placed the damp cloth on the table. Then, she asked, “Would you like some porridge?”

“No thanks. Maybe later.”

The girl lowered her gaze briefly, but then smiled and said, “Very well. I’ll set some aside for you. Food and water will help you recover more quickly.”

Owen nodded in a detached manner since the vivid scenes from his nightmare were still roiling in his mind. Within moments, he was alone. The only sound in the room was the crackle of a small flame flickering in the fireplace. His fist still clenched the blanket to the point his knuckles turned white. The itchy bandages covering his chest wounds barely even registered in his mind. Then, his gaze rose toward the door.

I need to hit something.