The first thing Ryota did after waking up from his dream was to look outside. The blue streetlights were still the main source of light, and that bothered him.
But why, because he was scared? Nah, the dream was just a side-effect of the horror movie he had watched with Sengoku and Hito that night. And how foolish it was to even think that horror movie monsters would exist in real life? Too childish for a writer who planned on making a living writing horror fiction (or non-fiction).
This was the fifth or sixth time he had seen a nightmare, but since they could not scare him, he preferred to call them dreams. And every time after waking up, he felt as if the dreams were real. Like they had happened before or would happen soon.
But how can it be real when wizards, dragons, and magic does not exist in the real world?
'I am consuming too much horror media.' He pulled the blanket off himself and stepped out of his futon. He could not sleep anymore, and he had to jot down this dream, so he walked to his table on the other side of the room.
'What was up with this dream? Fangs? Neck?' He sat on the floor, cross-legged, then pulled the table close to him.
A page had to be inserted in the typewriter, he always removed the current page after he was done for the day so that he could start fresh the next morning. What a twist in his routine – he started fresh in the middle of that night.
He switched on the table lamp. The table fan could not even beat the midnight heat. He went for the suitcase lying in the corner, it was his Writer's Box, where he kept all of his writing material – pages, pens, pencils, notepads, and the typewriter – for times he had to write in the school or at a cafe.
While he rolled the paper in the typewriter, he thought about the dream he had and how he could put it into the story. All the stories he had penned were either inspired by his dreams or real-life experiences. And well, sometimes, from the works of other great writers.
Ah, but heck. He had trouble even writing the dream as it was, forget pitching it. For minutes, he leaned against the closet and stared at the blank page, then at the typewriter's keys.
He sighed as he leaned off the wall and reached for his Writer's Box. He flipped the case open and grabbed the pen case. On the flap of the case was a pocket for keeping IDs and important files, but Ryota used it to keep his cigarettes.
He took out a cigarette from the case and set the butt in between his lips. Lighting the cigarette was the best part of smoking, even better than savoring the nicotine.
He pushed the table aside and rolled his legs to his chest. He held the cigarette and rested his elbow on the knee. 'Do I have to write a new story?'
Why were Sengoku and Hito in his dream? Who was that old Hag? What were the setting, the theme, and the build-up of the dream?
He tried pitching the idea from the middle, but without the start, it was just not 'hitting' right. He needed the beginning.
'The beginning hooks the readers, if it doesn't, they wouldn't even reach the best part of the story.' He put the cigarette back between his lips as he leaned over the typewriter. The paper jerked out of the typewriter, smudging some ink on the way.
He grabbed a pen, crossed the page across, and folded it. With his eyes on the stack of papers in the Writer's Box, he tossed the crumbled paper into the bin beside his futon.
He rolled another page into the typewriter, jumped to the middle of the page, and typed: A NEW PROJECT by H. Ryota.
***
The whimpering of a dog woke him up the next morning. He was lying on the floor with his legs spread under the table. The whimpering continued, and he took his time snapping out of the drowsiness.
The page was filled halfway, and two pages were lying beside it with the lighter on top. Three pages were crumbled beside him, he was too tired to toss them in the bin.
The sound of a dog's nails scratching on the door snapped Ryota out of his sleep. His heart skipped a beat in panic.
"Shit. Sakura. Oh, shit!" He pushed his hands to the ground, he had forgotten he was still sitting with the table on top.
The typewriter rolled over as Ryota lifted the table from one side. He made a dash for the typewriter and managed to grab it, but the keys got his middle and index finger and scraped them well.
He tried to stomp his elbow on the lighter, but then thought letting it fall off would be better than breaking the bones in his fingers.
The scratching increased, and so did the whimpering. Sakura was trying to open the door, but she was running out of time.
As Ryota was keeping the typewriter on the floor, he heard heavy footsteps stomping up the stairs. He froze, but his imagination did not. He imagined what would happen when she gets to Sakura before he does.
The booming voice of his aunt came from the other side. "You bitch. Will you ever let us sleep peacefully? It's not even seven and you are making noises."
His aunt. She was coming. Ryota flipped the table over. He forsook his table and ran to the door. He hit his toe against the Writer's Box, kicking it on the wall. But he made a final jump and grabbed the doorknob.
The last night was their horror movie marathon which lasted until half past zero, then they all were tired and sleepy. Ryota had forgotten to take Sakura in when he had gone to sleep.
That was a mistake. How could he not realize Sakura was not in his room when he had woken after the dream? Maybe because she always slept tight, making her presence impossible to notice her – like a cat. She was just a two-month-old Shiba Inu when Sengoku had gifted her to Ryota on his eighteenth birthday last month, on the third of March.
Aunt Oba never liked her – like she never liked Ryota and his friends. She had abused Sakura since the last month, and Ryota had tried to keep her as safe as possible. But life is full of exceptions.