Scorched Desires

Dreams, Voices, and Questionable Life Choices

Charlie



The dream always starts the same way, which is honestly getting old. You’d think my subconscious could mix things up—throw in a unicorn, maybe a decent cup of coffee, or at least a soundtrack that wasn’t so ominous. But no. It's always the same opening scene: darkness that feels like it has a personal vendetta against light.

Not the kind of darkness that comes with nightfall, when you’re cozy in bed and it just quietly does its job. This is darkness with attitude. The kind that spills across the sky like ink from a pen gripped by a cosmic horror writer having a bad day.

I can’t see anything, but I know I’m not alone. I never am in these dreams, which is either comforting or terrifying depending on your stance on mysterious disembodied voices.

Then comes the first voice—a woman’s. Cold and sharp, like broken glass stored in a freezer and used for emotional warfare.

"Stay away."

She never offers context. No “Stay away from what?” No helpful map. Just: Stay. Away.

And I never do.

Because then he speaks.

The second voice belongs to a man. Warm, steady—like the earth decided to talk and sound like hot chocolate mixed with lumberjack confidence and something else I can’t name but makes my knees forget how to function.

"Help us, Charlie."

He says my name like he’s always known it. Like I’m the missing piece to something ancient. The kind of voice that makes you want to believe in destiny, even though it usually ends in disaster.

"They won’t survive without you."

That’s when I wake up. Every. Single. Time. Same words. Same jolt. Same chest-deep feeling like I was yanked out of something that mattered.

But it’s not just the abrupt end. It’s the ache in my chest after, like my heart wants to chase something I can’t see. Like part of me wants to dive back into that darkness and find whoever belongs to that voice—even if it means ignoring the Ice Queen’s warning.

I’ve been having this dream almost every night for two weeks, and it’s starting to mess with my already questionable sleep schedule.

At first, I blamed stress. Or the paranormal romance novels I definitely don’t read before bed. (I do. Fight me.)

But this doesn’t feel like a stress dream. It feels… heavy. Like a message carried on smoke and static from some other realm.

Some mornings I wake up with tears drying on my face. Other nights, fists clenched, pulse racing, like I’ve been running through hell barefoot.

I don’t understand why it hits so hard. Why two voices in the dark feel more honest than most people I know in daylight. Why a faceless man feels more real than my own reflection sometimes.

And here’s the weirdest part—the longer it goes on, the more I feel like I know them.

The woman’s voice is ice, but there’s something under the cold. Desperation, maybe. Her warning isn’t just for me. It’s for him too.

Like she’s trying to protect us both. Even though every instinct screams she’s the one I should be afraid of.

And the man… I don’t know his name, but I feel like I owe him something. Or he owes me. Like we were supposed to meet a long time ago but fate got stuck in traffic.

I haven’t told anyone. Not my roommate Noah, who would mock me or whip out his Psych 101 knowledge like a party trick. Not my brother, who would recommend cardio and hydration. Not even my journal, because writing it down makes it real. And somehow, that feels dangerous.

And the truth? I don’t want it to stop.

Because I know, somewhere deep in the marrow of my bones—

These dreams mean something.

And I’m going to find out what.

----------

The alarm goes off at 7 AM, which is offensive. First, because it’s 7 AM. Second, because it pulls me out of the one place I feel like I’m almost understanding something.

I slap the snooze like I’m swatting a mosquito and try to cling to the fading dream. But it’s too late. The voices are gone, and all that’s left is the hollow ache in my chest.

----------

The scent hits me before I open my door: bacon. Either Noah is apologizing or stress-cooking again. I’m betting on apology.

I shuffle into the kitchen. The only sound is sizzling meat and the faint hum of Noah singing something suspiciously Disney.

He’s shirtless, of course—because Noah Rivera believes in freedom of expression and underdressing before noon. His curls defy gravity, his spatula is a microphone, and he's mid-spin like he’s hosting a one-man brunch musical.

When he spots me, he grins like he didn’t traumatize me twelve hours ago.

"Morning, sunshine," he says. "I bring offerings of meat and carbs to the altar of forgiveness."

I cross my arms. "You think bacon and pancakes erase the doll incident?"

He winces. "In my defense, you said you wanted to watch a horror movie."

"On a screen. Where the creepy things stay on that side of reality. Not a live-action nightmare with props from Satan’s toy chest."

Last night, during the worst part of Annabelle, Noah had snuck out “to pee.” Five minutes later, he crept back with the most demonic doll I’ve ever seen—dead eyes, permanent smirk, and vibes that screamed possessed.

Then, right in my peripheral vision, he whispered:

"Charlie... she wants to play."

I screamed. Like, throw-the-pillow, full-body, wake-the-neighbors, might-have-wet-myself scream. I stand by my reaction. Dolls are unnatural.

He laughs while flipping pancakes. "Your scream was horror-movie-tier impressive. Mrs. Henderson called to check you weren’t being murdered."

I glare. "I’m going to hide that doll somewhere you’ll never find it. And when you least expect it..."

He pales. Good. "Touch that thing, and we’re no longer friends. I’ll change the locks."

"Then we understand each other."

He slides a plate in front of me—pancakes, bacon, and a forced smiley face. A peace treaty in breakfast form. I dig in, pretending to be mad, but honestly? His pancakes are phenomenal, and I’m weak.

Besides, Noah’s been my rock too many times. He’s seen my worst and never flinched.

He steals a piece of bacon. “Bad dreams again?”

I pause. "What makes you say that?"

“You were talking in your sleep. I heard you through the wall. Something about staying away and helping someone. You sounded… upset.”

I try to brush it off. “Just weird dreams. Probably too much caffeine.”

“Charlie.” His voice lowers. Protective mode: activated. “These dreams are getting worse, aren’t they?”

I sigh. “Maybe.”

"What are they about?"

"It's always the same. A woman warns me to stay away. A man begs me to help. They feel... important. Like they’re trying to tell me something.”

He’s quiet. Too quiet.

“What kind of help?”

"I don’t know. I wake up before I find out."

Noah studies me. “What if they’re not just dreams?”

I blink. "What do you mean?"

“What if someone is actually trying to contact you? What if you're... I don't know. Special?”

I snort. “Noah, I’m a plain bagel of a person. I do data entry. I kill plants. I once got lost in a parking garage for two hours. No one’s looking at me thinking hero.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe you’re exactly what they need.”

His tone makes the hairs on my neck stand up. Like he knows something he’s not saying.

I narrow my eyes. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

He hesitates. Opens his mouth.

And then steals another piece of bacon.

“Just that you should cut back on horror movies,” he says with a grin.

I want to push. But I know that look—he’s not budging. Not now.

“Fine,” I say, stabbing my pancake. “But that doll is going to haunt you.”

"Looking forward to it."

But as I eat, one thought won’t leave me:

Noah knows something.

And soon, I’m going to find out what.