„Hyung.”

He screamed at the top of his lungs but his voice slowly dissolved into the suffocating air. The dark room soon fell into silence again. He was alone, he was scared and he didn’t know what to do. He searched for him but to no avail. He turned around and slipped. He fell into the hole of darkness.

He opened his eyes. Again. He didn’t know what exactly he had seen but he was back. It was like his mind was playing a trick on him. How long does it take to drive a person crazy? He didn’t want to know the answer.

He was on a bed and the only thing he saw was the pitch-black ceiling. He wasn’t even sure if it was the ceiling but something in his guts told him that it should have been. There must be a ceiling although it looked like the galaxy; like it didn’t have an end.

He got up and his head was suddenly filled with strange flashbacks. Screeching tyres. Breaking glasses. A burning piano. His face. He saw himself like he was another person. He saw the terrified glint in his eyes but it was gone in the next minute. The memories stopped popping up and he was alone again. He shook his head and stood up. The bed disappeared right away.

It was replaced by an easel with a painting of a young man. It was him. The boy from one of his dreams. Or were they memories? He didn’t know. He only knew that he this face was familiar to him.

Suddenly, his heart stung and pain consumed his whole body. He clutched onto his chest but the pain was even more unbearable. What was it about? Who was the boy? How he was connected to him? He knew, he just knew that he should have known who the boy was but he didn’t. He didn’t even know who he was.

There wasn’t any mirror in the room, so he wasn’t even sure how he looked like. He couldn’t remember his name, nor his family. Nobody. His thoughts were tangled. Yet, there were these weird moments when he felt like he was somebody. Others were waiting for him. It made him excited. But who were the ones waiting for him? Why they were waiting for him? Where?

He stepped closer to the easel and picked up the paintbrush. Then, it hit him again. The burning piano. A picture in his hands. The young man’s face. His blood on his hands. He jumped in surprise when bloodspots appeared on the easel. Fear started to eat up his mind. What was it? Did he kill him? Why would he do so? Why would he take a life?

“No,” he shook his head more and more vigorously as his pulse rose higher and higher. Thoughts were rumbling in his head and he couldn’t stop them. The easel suddenly got on fire. He took a step back. Did he do it? Or was it a sign again? That they were in a burning room? That the young boy was in a burning room?

“Hyun