Polly's Eternal Adventure

The darkness pulls me under, heavy and suffocating. It's not the peace that sleep promises. Instead, there's something crawling in my chest—a dark, gnawing presence, pressing against my ribs like it's trying to tear me apart from the inside.

Suddenly, I'm somewhere else. The air is thick with the smell of blood and sweat. The shapes around me—bodies, lifeless and twisted—are blurred, but their presence is painfully clear. The walls are smeared with dark streaks of red, and though the details are fuzzy, the emotions hit hard. Fear. Anger. Sorrow. They're not just feelings, they're a tidal wave, slamming into me over and over, making it impossible to breathe.

I want to close my eyes, to shut it all out, but I can't. I'm trapped in this horror, forced to witness it.

And then, in an instant, it all shifts. The violence fades, and something softer emerges.

Just when I think I can't take it anymore, the scene changes. The violence fades, replaced by something softer. I see a young girl standing near a shop, her long blonde-brown hair catching the light. She looks sad—no, more than sad. There's a deep hurt in her sharp, dark red eyes, a pain that makes my heart ache. I can feel it like it's my own.

A boy approaches her. He's small, no older than eight, with messy dark blue hair and a nose that's running. He doesn't seem to notice, though, as he offers her something—a glowing blue flower. His smile is genuine, though a bit shy, and his voice wavers as he speaks through his sniffles.

The little Boy: Sniff You look really sad, and I wanted to give you this. I hope you feel better. My mom says that they always make someone feel better. Sniff

For a moment, the girl just stares at him, unmoving. Then, slowly, she reaches out and takes the flower. Her expression barely shifts, but I can see it—a flicker of something, like a crack in the ice. The boy grins, wide and proud, like he's just done the most important thing in the world. And maybe, for her, he has..

He runs off, leaving her standing there, staring down at the flower in her hand.

The dream shifts again. It's the next day, and the boy comes back. This time, he gives her a red flower.

The Little Boy: Sniff This one's a Heat Flower! It's warm when you look at it, but never too hot. I thought... maybe you'd like it. Sniff

The girl takes the flower, and for a moment, everything feels... calm. I can feel it too, like a soothing balm over all the pain and violence. It's the first time I've felt anything like peace in this dream, and I cling to it, hoping it will last.

But it doesn't. The calm is ripped away, replaced by something cold and harsh. The girl is in a dimly lit room now, and there's a man—her father—standing over her. I can't see his face clearly, but I can feel his anger, his disgust. His voice is sharp, cutting through the air like a knife.

"You're not here to play with flowers! You're here to do what you're told!" he yells, his words echoing in the room, each one like a slap. "Now go! Be useful for once and go fight! And make them pay! Use your power—it's what you were born for!"

I can see the girl's hands tighten around the flowers, her knuckles turning white. She doesn't want to do it; I can feel her resistance, her desperation to hold onto that small piece of humanity. But she's scared. I can feel that too—the fear of disobeying, the fear of what will happen if she doesn't do as she's told.

I want to do something, anything. I can't just stand here and watch. Anger bubbles up inside me, hot and fierce. I want to reach out, to grab her father and make him stop. I want to scream at him, to tell him to leave her alone, that she's more than just a weapon for him to use. I take a step forward, my hand reaching out—

But then, everything starts to fade. The room, the girl, the flowers—they all blur and dissolve into darkness. I'm yanked away, pulled out of the dream before I can do anything.

I wake up with a gasp, my heart racing, my face wet with tears. I'm angry—angry at him, at her father, for what he did to her. And yet, there's this deep sadness too, like I've lost something important. I don't know who that girl was or why it all felt so real, but I can't shake the emotions clinging to me.

I lie there in the dark, the dream still heavy in my mind. I don't understand why it happened, but I know it wasn't just a random nightmare. It was something more—a memory, maybe? A glimpse into a life that wasn't mine, but felt like it was. And even though I couldn't reach out to her, couldn't help her, I can't forget what I felt.

This was more than just a dream. It was a cry for help—from her, or maybe even from me.