1 | Sirens
Celeste
I have the same dream every full moon.
I am in a room that is pure, unfiltered white; the floors are white, the walls are white, the bed in the middle of the room is white. Even the sunlight that pours through the two windows is white, everything it strikes taking on an opalescent hue. I find myself randomly inserted into the room, standing at the foot of the bed, looking past it at the window that blinds me. I stay stationary until I feel that same familiar, vague presence suddenly manifest behind me, and then I turn around.
I have forbidden myself from seeing the face of my mate, though I have allowed myself to get close. I know he has these same dreams on the same nights I have them, and because I have never seen his face that means he has also never seen mine. I have the power to block him from seeing my face too. I've always wondered if I would recognize my mate somehow if I met him, but I only allow my curiosity to stretch so far. I have a boyfriend. I can't stop these dreams, but I can maintain some degree of control over how they unfold.
Turning around slowly, I am greeted with the back of the strange but familiar man. He is also wearing white: a white button-up shirt, white pants, and white socks, but no shoes. All I can see is the shock of black hair that disturbs the perfect whiteness of the room. It is like a villain making their first appearance in a film: the stark contrast between themselves and the rest of the setting indicates that they are different from the rest of the cast in some sinister way. Have I ever passed this man in the street but never knew?
I take three steps—the same number of steps in every dream—towards him, one hand outstretched, reaching for his shoulder. I feel his muscles tense beneath my touch, his body aching to turn and see me, but I forbid such an act from ever occurring. Just as in every dream he puts his hand over mine, fingers curling tightly. I take a deep breath. I wonder if he knows that it's under my insistence the mystery between us remains.
Every dream is full of possibilities, all of which I am unwilling to explore. I could take him to the bed, I could take him to the window, I could lead him in circles if I really wanted to. Instead all I do is stand there, a question stuck in my mouth like a bad taste. I don't know what question it is I want to ask; all I know is that I want to ask it but the words catch in my throat each time. Each dream is silent, gaps filled with white noise. This time is different.
"What is your name?" I finally spit the words out.
He jerks. I peel my hand from him and take a step back. The room, as if in rebellion, fills with oscillating red and yellow lights like that of an ambulance, choking out the opalescent sunlight. My stomach is sick with fear, my hands flying over my mouth. Sirens, at first distant, grow louder, deafening in their intensity. I should never have asked...this must be my psyche collapsing under the weight of what I have just done. I asked the forbidden question.
As soon as the man—my mate—turns around, the dreamscape turns black.
──── ୨୧ ────
I jolt awake to the sound of sirens—real sirens—and red and yellow oscillating lights dancing across the ceiling. My chest is pounding as I sit up, my boyfriend sitting up abruptly next to me. Our breaths are heavy as we try to gather our bearings, disoriented from sleepiness and the commotion happening outside. He puts his hand on my elevated knee.
"Matthew," I whisper, chills trickling down my spine. "I'm afraid to look outside."
"Me too."
We take a few additional deep breaths, gaining courage, and spin around, gripping onto the wooden headboard as we look out the window above our bed. Matthew and I live in a 12-story apartment building with our apartment being on the tenth floor, so we have a near panoramic view of the street. My eyes widen as I watch a behemoth crowd of protestors—which the Lycans would call agitators—flooding through the street like a rush of water. I imagine, with the way emergency vehicles drive erratically, that the protestors have managed to compromise a few of them and are using them to get attention from all downtown inhabitants. As I watch other apartments begin to light up, silhouettes standing in the windows, I believe that their ploy has worked.
I fly out of the bedroom, my intuition telling me that I should check the television to determine what has caused such an uprising. Matthew isn't far behind me, asking where I'm going then standing silently behind me as I grab the TV remote. My hands shake as I urge the device to life; I don't even need to switch to the news because every channel has been overtaken with live updates on the current political and social turmoil.
"Alpha Torres has just passed away and his son, Ronan Torres, has succeeded him. The inauguration ceremony will commence tomorrow morning where he will be sworn in as the new Eastern Alpha of Lycanos," says the News Reporter, her hair perfect and curled, her makeup and smile flawless. "The new Eastern Alpha promises, as part of his agenda, to crack down on partisan groups, insurrectionists, agitators, and dissidents. He vows to make our streets and cities safer by any means necessary. He has taken a harder approach than this father, and starting tomorrow we will see what that means for our region—"
I change the channel to another News reporter who says the same thing but in different words. I change the channel again, again, and again, the updates all being regurgitated by different broadcasters. After turning off the television I throw the TV remote angrily into the couch cushions, wedging it somewhere before I pivot on my heel to the balcony door. My anxiety spikes at the culmination of a new Alpha and the continuous swelling of those who oppose his regime...Matthew included.
Matthew is at best a dissident but at worst an insurrectionist and separatist; he is also a full-blooded human. I worry that he will take the new Alpha's promise to crackdown on dissidence as a challenge. I barely support his endeavors already—I support his goals, but that means my life is marred by the fear that one day the ball will drop and we will be imprisoned for treason. Imprisonment on such convictions means manual labor, starvation, disease, disappearance; most who are imprisoned for rebuking the regime are never seen again. Matthew has had some close calls. I support him from a distance. Our relationship is often tense because of our stubborn beliefs and fears.
Stepping outside onto the balcony, my ears and eyes are overwhelmed; I am a werewolf who is unable to shift, but I have been compensated with gifts of enhanced hearing and sight, endurance (but not speed), and the ability to recognize if someone is a fundamentally good or evil person just by looking into their eyes for five seconds. Matthew, despite my grievances with him, is genuinely a good person. It gets complicated because he is a good person with secrets.
A gust of wind blows my hair across my face, some strands getting stuck in my mouth, and before I can wipe the distraction away Matthew has already done it for me. He wraps his warm brown arms around me, kissing my neck. My head is already starting to pound from the cacophony of the sirens, eyes stinging from the lights. The crowd stretches like fresh mozzarella, a substance that keeps on spreading and growing, now taking up entire city blocks.
"I wish I was there," Matthew says. "I agree with the protestors. I am on their side."
A new sound, one in the far distance, roars to life, and I feel my body filling with goosebumps. Motorcycles, the call of the Lycans. Humans and werewolves are prohibited from motorcycles. Humans and werewolves drive cars, trucks, vans, and SUVs. Why this rule is a thing I will never know, but I have a feeling it has to do with intimidation. When you hear the roaring of motorcycle engines you know the Lycans are near, and you know they want you to know that they are near.
Driving from the opposite direction to meet the crowd head on is a flood of motorcycles and Lycans who have shifted into wolf form. Vaguely, as if to create dissonance, I can hear the sounds of howling and growling over the screaming of the engines and the sounds of the crowd that can't decide if it wants to meet their aggressors or flee from them. The crowd of protesters, stretching forward, suddenly cinches itself. The cacophony grow louder and louder.
A stolen ambulance presses the gas and drives straight into a group of motorcyclists, mowing them down, and the Lycans are not feeling generous enough today to let such a felony slide. More crowds of motorcyclists and Lycans in wolf form appear, emerging from different streets, pulling several flanking maneuvers to encircle the protestors. My heart is in my throat. This new regime will tolerate no modicum of resistance. Protests used to be the one thing we had...now that has been taken too. I thought protests in and of themselves were harmless.
"I can't stand this anymore," Matthew says, removing his arms from around me. "I have to help. I have to join them. I probably know some people there."
"Where are you going?" I gasp, turning around to follow him as he makes his way to the front door. The sounds pursue us through the apartment. "Matthew, it's dangerous. You could be killed."
"I know. Are you coming with me or not, Celeste?"
