Waking up with a start, I groaned and placed pillow over my face to block the sunlight streaming in through my curtains, demanding that I rise up early in the morning as it is forced to everyday. Images of the nightmare kept floating in and out of my mind. It was the same recurring dream that I have had since I was eight, though it hasn't been occurring as often as before.

I was an observer, always the observer. Not in the middle of anything, just simply watching like I played no part in the dream.

We, my parents and my eight year old self, were driving home from my beginner orchestra's debut concert when I realized that I had forgotten my cello. I have no idea how I could have forgotten it, it just wasn't in our car. I told my parents and my dad sighed as he turned the car around, irritated at my irresponsibility of forgetting the big instrument.

One second, I was blinded by a light, the next it was dark. I seemed dizzy. Horns were honking, people were screaming, I was bleeding. Blood was everywhere I looked. It was on my hands, on my clothes, in my mind, dripping over my consciousness like slick syrup, oozing slowly down on the pancakes over layer upon layer of horror.

I tried to get up, but I couldn't, the seatbelt strapped me down and it looked like I couldn't move so much without my arm screaming at me to stop. Instead, I looked around, dazed, probably trying to see if my parents were awake as well.

"Mom, Dad?"My voice was quiet, it hurt to speak.

I strained to listen.

I heard a groan; it came from my mom. Her eyes were closed, she seemed unconscious. Her chest rose up and down in correlation of her strained breathing. She was okay, she was fine fortunately.

Realizing my dad didn't respond back to me when I called to them, I tried to look over at him without adding more tension to my body. If it was even possible at the time, I froze. Blood was exiting out above his temple, saturating his white shirt with dark, red blood. He wasn't moving. There was no sound from him. I knew he was gone. I screamed piercing my own ears and hurting my insides. It looked like it must have upset my injuries. I didn't care though, that it hurt. Nothing could have been worse than what I was emotionally feeling at that moment. I blacked out.

Now, I was no longer an observer, but my present teenage self. I was lying down on the hospital bed surrounded by the white walls, sobbing from the news I recently received of my dad. My mom was sitting in the chair next to me, trying to console me, even though she herself needed it as well.

In a second, her face changed. A loathsome, cantankerous expression suddenly replaced the once despondent look.

"It's all of your fault." She muttered, glaring at me. "If you hadn't have been as stupid as to forget your cello, none of this would have happened."

I looked up, surprised, shaking my head vehemently in denial.

"Yes, it's because of you he's dead now."

"No, no. It isn't." I sobbed into my hands.

She got up and without a single look at me, left the room.

I shook my head, trying unsuccessfully to dispel the dream from my memory. That was enough; I needed a run to expunge it out my head. I changed into my running clothes—tank top and shorts—put on my tennis shoes, and grabbed my iPod. With the earplugs stationed and ready in my ears, I clicked the play button, blasting it to scare anything else disturbing me in my mind away, and wait. The beats, the voices, the music: it all begins. It undulates, pulses, and lures me in. Closing my eyes, I now see ethereal images play throughout my mind making me forget of the dream.

Jogging at a slow pace to warm up for a couple of minutes, I picked up the speed. I kept to the vivacity of the music's pulse, for once, leaving everything behind, forgetting everything wrong in my life. I evened out my breath and started sprinting, imagining myself running far, far away from any troubles.

I must have been too into it though because I ran into a wall. Well, a wall that could breathe, fall, and groan from the impact of our collision. I quickly got off of the poor guy, panting from the run. About to apologize, I stopped. His eyes, they were a beautiful, solid dark green color with an orange-red color almost swallowing the pupils, surrounded by thick, long eyelashes and a strong brow. However, there seemed something wrong with them. It looked like the eyes hated me. Oh, that's right; I just rammed into this stranger and used him as a cushion to the concrete ground.

Realizing that I was staring a bit too long, I quickly apologized, "I'm so sorry! I wasn't paying attention."

He looked to be about my age, black hair, taller than my extremely short 5'1'' stature, with freckles lightly sprinkled over his face. The scowl on his face looked permanently etched on his face from, what it seems like, glaring all day long.

He grunted in response.

"Well, I really do appreciate you forgiving me. I should just smash into him every day and see what he says then." I rolled my eyes and continued on. As quickly as I started, I stopped, realizing that I said that last sardonic statements aloud. I risked a glimpse back at him, masking my fear of him killing me, with a tight smirk. He was still glowering at me, of course; however, I could have been mistaken, but did I see a bit of intrigue?

Oh well, it's not like I'll ever see him again. I placed my earplugs back in, blaring out, and continued running.