Micael saw something quite unusual, starting from the very blanket of his. It was colored white right before he took his rest and now it was adorned by something which had also adorned the man in white's very old flute: dirt and some dead grass. His blanket of which his chest and feet were fully covered had also been covered by dirt, like how it would look like when it was washed by the waters on his dreams. It looked nearly brown in color with smudges of green.
No.
They really were colored that way, and that time, he was not dreaming. His chest suddenly felt the slightest ache, of which he touched immediately but he felt something irregular, out of the ordinary, there were the littlest of crack noises, too, of which he heard because it was quiet, but his eyes could not dare too look at the windows yet.
All he could dare to look curiously at was his chest and his feet, and he tilted his head and his eyes from their sockets, and sooner his eyes were locked tight into his chest while he was touching them, feeling the crumbly sensation of his hands and the little crack noises of which he could only hear, and the last thing he would be wanted to hear that time.
His shirt was covered with dried dirt, and beneath those cracking dirt was a stain of which was very unlikely to be removed, and some smudge of green, he was shocked, let alone his spine had started to send shivers into his hands, and they were shaking like his hands, discrete from his very body, were experiencing epileptic attacks but from his mind instead of his very body. His shorts was no doubt in one, too, but he could not dare to touch any longer than the littlest of time for he could feel for every millisecond passing was shock and trembles down to his crotch, of which might be covered with dirt and swamp as well but he never dared to look at with his virgin eyes, and soon he went down to his feet with his hands on the track as well. His legs from knee to ankle was barely covered in dirt, but they felt like it had been wet for some time.
There were small torn leaves stuck on one of his limbs, a vine which found its very way to entangle itself into his ankles, and it was brown in color, let alone covered in dirt In the barest way as he could imagine, and he could feel the hit from a branch stretching out from the cut tree which he had forgotten to be even give it the quietest look, and extremely shocked was he, he continued down to his ankle, and eventually into his feet.
"Where are you taking me into, bunny?" he whispered quietly expecting that the man in white would reply beyond his closed door once more, but he never really did like he was just uttering ere waking up.
He grunted once more for the pain coming from his sole, then he looked at it with the greatest curiosity he could had left himself with. He then had the courage, like he always had, to hold the fingers of his right foot and turn the sole towards him, and he then saw what he had put unto it: dirt.
There was also dry blood which had dripped down to his heel and painless bruises which was colored like dull plants which were purple as their natural colors. He touched the dirt with the slightest of force and he felt how painful it was, like how it felt way back his walking, let alone dreaming.
He scratched the dirt off of the wound, and he saw one straight cut on his sole, a mere one and a half inch of semi-deep laceration which caused the pause he had been feeling, and grunting into. He felt the pain but he was more than just feeling one. He was immediately and incessantly sent aquiver by the fact that his dream, and what had happened into his projected body that traversed that dream, had come with him in the apparent world. The dirt, the stain, the cut from twigs, and even the sewer-like smell of the swamp water of which he had put himself into traversing in the first place, and he was shocked, and then he remembered the letter attached onto the wall at the front of his table, and so he did not waste any time on tilting his head once more, and turning about his neck and looked towards his table.
Shocked was he, there was a letter, very similar than the letter he had seen was there last. He grabbed his glasses above the desk where his lampshade sat, and wore it with his hands shaking like a battery-dead clock, and he looked once more. He then realized that it was the very same letter from his dreams which hunted him, thought-wise and body-wise. He quickly got his feet onto the floor with speed, and he felt the pain coming from the cut on his sole, and his cheeks had clenched, and sooner his eyes, but he never really bothered and he continued.
With precarious-not feet, he stood up with his posture straight about his back, and walked slowly. Every step felt like a gunshot on his feet, as the pain was miserable to be even be felt and infected with what he thought like dozens of creatures who were fighting for the very prize of oneself, but he knew one's pain must be temporary and he got questions inside his mind without mere answers, yet. He then looked at the paper, and tore it from its attachment in the wall, and placed it straight into the front of his eyes. The letters were blur, but he was smart and his eyes were clear enough, with his glasses, in order to just comprehend what was written, let alone what the man in white had written for him, and there he read it with the mouth of both of his eyes, and he was shocked once more. The skin of his forehead had started to crumble like soft pastries and sweat started to race itself down to his neck, as the written writings on the dingy white paper was the very same as the paper inside his dream.
A mere combination of different letters from two different alphabets with a name indicated right at the very bottom, which looked like they were written with dust-mixed blood, and he tried to transcribe it inside his head, of which he eventually did.
...