This Is Not Real
He Juan was certain he had fallen into the depth of Hell.
Everywhere around him was muddy swamp, and climbing out of it were tens if not hundred pairs of bloody arms. They grabbed onto his legs, his arms, his clothes, yanking and pulling him deeper and deeper. And no matter what he did, he could not free himself.
Voices. There were a lot of indistinct voices echoing around his ears. Some were familiar, but most were not. He had never heard them before – or to be exact, he had never heard them during the past seven years since he woke up from the coma. He could tell that the scenes flashing in front of him was his past memory – the one he thought he had lost for a lifetime. However, every time he reached out to hold onto them, they would scatter away like faint dust and he could grab onto nothing but empty air.