Chapter 7

I don't have dreams like normal people. There's always something in them, not necessarily human nor creature like that is neither frightening nor out of place in the normal way. It's not the dreams are terrifying with monsters in creatures abnormal in them, but they're just different.

I suppose that it starts with the fact that I never see anyone's face in my dreams. Although I am perfectly aware they have faces, the people in my dreams are faceless. The place where any expression should be is blurred or scratched out. I wonder how this shows my outlook on others. My therapist would say it's social anxiety, my mother would say it's lack of imagination.

The only other commonality in my dreams is the butterflies. Although it's rare I see more than one, I always see a butterfly in my dreams. But the thing about these butterflies is that they're never colorful. They are very much like normal butterflies, deprived of any patterns or colors on their wings, they are merely black and white.

Void of any ornate beauty that a butterfly possesses that we are so knowledgeable of, the butterflies in my dreams are simple. I vaguely remember learning in the seventh grade science class that butterflies can't see their wings. No matter how hard they look they would not be able to see their own beauty.

I wonder then, and I still do now, if that is a metaphor for life. Perhaps saying that the butterfly couldn't see you some wings so I did not know its own beauty was like telling you not to judge yourself on what you see. Even if you look into a mirror you're only seeing the opposite version of you, the flipped one from another world.

So even though butterflies, in their great beauty are ignorant, they still possess an innocent appearance. It confuses me, bewilders the mind. How can something with the wings made of many patterns, colors, shapes and sizes be something so rare and beautiful?

What does this butterfly think of itself if it cannot see its own wings?

I'm probably asking the wrong question here. I shouldn't ponder too much on a dream. I don't believe those ideas of psychological value that we manifest in our dreams. Because if we are truly manifesting our dreams, why am I manifesting a butterfly?

I could dive into it, but let's be honest I'm too lazy to do that.

"That's right you are."

I open my eyes, looking over at the man who's leaning above me. I know who it is immediately by his smug smile.

He looks mostly the same, despite the change in his outfit. Now he is wearing a red cloak with golden patterns on the edges. His long black hair is down, some of it on me. Besides the cloak, which reminds me of something a wizard would wear, he is dressed all in black. He looks nothing like a devil, or at least what my mind would imagine him as when I'm not feeling lonely and have access to the internet.

"I knew that voice putting me to sleep sounded familiar. It was too sleazy for it to be anyone else."

"Wow! Hittin' me where it hurts, not very nice."

"Good, I wasn't trying to be nice to you."

"That's not what you say to the person who saved you."

"Well you wouldn't have done it unless there was something in it for you. I know you're the type of person who is driven by personal profit."

"Well, you got me in a corner Evan."

"It's Anya now," I grunt.

"I'll still call you Evan if you don't mind."

"I don't," I let myself smile a bit.

"So how'd you sleep?"

"It was–hey! Are you trying to get me off course from the previous topic? What are you trying to hide, Devil?"

"A lot. Also I would prefer if you didn't call me 'Devil'."

"Then what would you prefer?"

"Marcus."

I break out into laughter.

"Marcus! Your name is Marcus?"

"Yes, what's so funny about that?"

"The dude who was my nurse at the hospital was named Marcus. I honestly didn't expect you to be named that. I thought it'd be something foreign and fancy or like a number."

"You read way too many novels."

"What can I say, I was bored."

"How has it been so far?"

The tone of his voice shifts as does the mood in the room. His body language is stiff and almost tense, as if he is waiting for something bad. I sit up.

"Okay."

"Just okay?"

"Yeah, not great, not terrible. I guess that I'm just confused and lonely. Probably a little overwhelmed as well."

"I suppose I can understand that."

"Yeah," I lean my head down, avoiding his eyes.

"Hey," he grabs onto my chin, pulling my head to face him. "You know that I'm omnipotent right? I see and know everything."

"I know."

"Then will you please tell me how you're feeling, that's the one thing I can't just know."

"I'm confused," I brush away his hand.

"Well I'm sorry but the terms of our contract mean that I can't explain most of this to you until you figure it out on your own. Then I can fill in the gaps, but not until then. Or at least once you fall in love."

"Ha!" I scoff. It seems somewhat ridiculous that I agreed to that condition. "So how long do I have until I lose a sense?"

"Two years. Don't worry about it."

"You're cute, 'don't worry'. How can I not?"

"Well you did the right thing by breaking it off with the prince. Playboys are jackasses and rarely ever do they revert from their rude behavior."

"Yeah."

We sit in sullen silence, the air filled with the awkwardness between contractor and I. The light from the windows tell me that it is early morning. Not as early as last time, but it's clear that at least a day has passed. I wonder if I'll be able to cut my hair...

"That song...where did you learn it?"

"What song–ah, the one I played on the piano?"

"Yes, it was rather beautiful."

"Well I am a pianist...but since you're wondering..."