My father had always told me that I was too intrusive. I asked to many questions, and that I was a menace to society. I had always replied with a meek, "Yes, Papa". But I knew that I was not a menace. I was considered an incredibly sensitive girl. Sensitive meaning that I was sensitive to people around me. I was bold, confident and sometimes, I'll admit, intrusive. Nothing like my name would suggest. Verity. A name for a beautiful, shy, timid girl. Not me at all. Although some would disagree about one of those adjectives.

I walked into our house, a nice, comfortable home built right off the river and the forest, tucked away in a little corner of the reigon. My father's door was closed, again. He was probably sleeping off some alchohol or maybe his back just hurt. Either way, I knew not to disturb him. I walked up the stairs, tossing my keys on the counter in the kitchen. The narrow stairway was familiar, and although I once felt claustrophobic in the cramped space, it now felt normal, just like the rest of our house. My fingers trialed along the wall as I continued down the hallway to my bedroom. The door was open. I hesitated, not sure what was up. My father must have needed something. Or maybe I just forgot to shut it this morning on my way to school. I entered the room, humming some tuneless song as I dropped my bag on my small desk. The window was open, and the curtains were flowing softly in the breeze. I sat on my bed, running through my mental checklist about what I did today. Check, check, check.

My bed moved.

I jumped up, and was against the wall before I could even comprehend what it was. I peered closely at my small bed, afraid it would, I don't know, stand up and jump out the window or something. But it didn't move again. I was just relaxing when my eye caught movement in my peripheral vision. A shadow. One that wasn't my own. I slowly backed against the wall again, focusing on the small shadow that began to grow in size.

My hand flew to my mouth, stifling my scream into a quiet yelp as I saw a figure rise from the side of my bed. I waited, fear coursing through my stomach, threatening to flood out of my body in the form of a loud scream. I watched the figure take form. When it became obvious that it was a teenage boy, I felt some relief. But only a little. We watched each other.

My instictive questioning valve began in overdrive. I swallowed my voice, trying as hard as I could not to make any noise. But the valve was stronger than my will. My mouth began yapping.

"Who are you? Why are you in my room? How did you get in my room?" My voice sounded loud and intrusive. I mentally kicked myself. I was talking loud enough to wake my father.

The boy laughed a little, but then winced and put a hand to his head. "I'm Derrik. And I was sleeping. And I came in through the ceiling." He laughed as I involuntarily glanced up. Oh, yeah. Make jokes and tease the gullible girl. I ignored his reaction and continued with my interrogation.

"You were sleeping? Why?" I asked tentatively.

"I was sleeping because I was tired." He said curtly. "Who are you?" His face was hidden by the shadows, but I noticed that it was handsome. My thoughts started to wander, but I managed to answer. "Verity Young. And why were you sleeping in my room?" I asked, pulling myself to the present.

"I was sleeping in your room because it was dark and cold outside." Derrik was clearly done with this conversation. "The point is, I finally found you." My head began to whirl. What? "And I need your help." He said hesitantly.

I took a step towards him. "How did you know where I lived? And I don't think I know you. I would have remembered." Then his words sunk in. "Why do you need my help?"

He shook his head. "So many questions. Look, I can't tell you everything right now. But, you have to know one thing, before anything else." I nodded, waiting for the next sentence.

He took a deep breath before blurting out the most unexpected thing I could think of.

"I'm a Dreamer".

I stared at him, not blinking. "What?" I couldn't have heard him right. "Did you just say 'Dreamer'?" All of the stories, the legends, were pulled to the surface. "A Dreamer." I said, for clarification.

He nodded the affirmative. "Yeah".

"But, that's only a story! A myth!" I immediately contradicted his statement. "There is no way you can have Dreams! Dreams don't exsist!" I scoffed at the idea of Dreams.

Derrik shook his head sadly. "Why do they lie to you?" He asked, more to himself than me. I paused, thinking again about the ridiculousness of all of this.

"Why do they... lie to me? What are you talking about?" I watched his face for any of the tell tale signs of annoyance. Nothing crossed his face. Except for... was that... pain? "Why are you wincing? Are you hurt?" It is then that I saw the crusty patch of dried blood on his upper arm. "Oh, my goodness!" I started forward, instinctively.

"No, no. It's fine." He put his hands up, as if to ward me away from him. "I have to tell you this. It is extremely important. My arm can wait." He stares me down, as if daring me to argue. But, since I am so obviously brash and intrusive, I blatantly ignored him and grabbed his hand. I pushed him down onto my bed, and then forcefully tore away the shirt around the wound.

"No. You are injured, and you need help. Besides, fixing you up is not going to effect my hearing. So talk away!" I exclaim, as I touch the cloth that has been held in place over the wound with the dried blood. A fleeting thought crosses my mind as I work at removing the clothing over the injury. This is the first time any boy has been in my room. Let alone a cute boy. I pushed the thought away, and went to get some water and a couple of cleaning rags. When I came back, he was sitting on my bed in the same position, looking extremely exasperated, but slightly touched. I grinned triumphantly.

I dipped the cloth in the water, and began gently scrubbing at the dried blood on his arm. My eyes kept on glancing at his rugged expression on his face. He had dirt smudges all over his arms and face. His hair was clearly unkept, and hasn't seen a good wash in quite a while. The color was... dirty blonde? I couldn't tell. I continued to clean his wound. Neither he nor I were talking, so eventually my thoughts returned to the present, and I recalled what he had said about the common stories. I spoke in an offhanded way, my focus mainly on cleaning his shoulder. "So, tell me about these Dreams".