Part I: Fallen in a Dream

"Couldn't sleep?"

A pause, before the nectar-sweet voice murmured on from within the impenetrable darkness; its sound tender as the night: "I would sing you a lullaby, but that's Sophia's specialty. Instead, would you care for a story?"

Silence in the dark; then came a soft sigh, moody as a torch song.

"No, my stories are not as good as you say they are . . . but I'm happy you like them anyway. The others are right, you know, about them being simpleminded and childish. Perhaps I still have a long way to go before weaving up real masterpieces, profound tales that could move the heart." A soft laugh, more intoxicating than all the fine wines of the world, washed through the atmosphere. "But why would I need to walk that long way when I have you, the most loyal devotee to my simpleminded, childish stories, right here with me, right now?

"Wouldn't you like for me to stay by your side on each and every night? Wouldn't you like for me to read you stories of old and of new; stories that could color up your sleep, and fill it up with rose-colored dreams?

"Wouldn't you like for me to be in your heart always?"

A long, drawn-out breath, and then . . .

"I thought so too," the voice murmured, as if in reply to an answer. "Now let's see, what kind of story would you prefer this time? Would you prefer the woeful tales of the fallen stars, or the triumphant tales of the risen tides?" A pause. "Or, how about an ugly tale of old, but retold in newer, prettier words? That would be perfect for the night, don't you think? So here it goes . . ."

Long ago, back when the world was young, nothing existed beyond an immaculate little garden, and the equally immaculate little gardener who kept it. The name of the garden was Peace, and the name of its gardener was Light . . .

. . . that was when Jonah Clayborn woke from his recurring dream, and opened his eyes to the hazy glow of the morning light.

In the back of his mind, the dream, still obscured by opaque shadows, would linger on in all its startlingly clear details. The stories. The words. The oppressive darkness that blocked his view, forever keeping him from seeing the face behind that tender, nectar-like voice; the heavenly sound that had filled up his heart ever since three years ago, when the dream came to him on the night of his thirteenth birthday for the very first time.

"Wouldn't you like for me to be in your heart always?”

Living the life of a contemporary teenage male, where peer and academic pressure could often rose to stifling levels at every turn, Jonah found this dream to be the indefinite sliver of color that he so needed to counter the dreary gray shades of his existence.

"Wouldn't you like for me to stay by your side on each and every night?”

And when that dream recur, when that nectar-sweet voice came and sooth his mental weariness time and time again, what was once but a lone flower in his desert slowly flourished into a vast oasis; one that filled up his entire heart.

And he found himself in love with ‘her’.

Somewhere out there is the girl of my dream, the boy convinced himself. I know what she's like, and I know what she likes. I will find her.

Studying himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, Jonah saw a chestnut-haired, doe-eyed boy small of face and torso and long of neck and limbs, completely devoid of facial hair, along with any visible traces of an Adam's apple. In fact, his legs seemed to be the only thing on him that had grown in the past few years, leaving him taller yet lighter than a good deal of his classmates.

. . . well, maybe not the only thing.

A small but eye-catching mole the color of blood burned brightly upon the left side of his chest. The first time he saw it, he had mistaken it for a small wound.

It was the morning after the party of his thirteenth birthday. The boy had never, ever, seen the red mole before in his life. Having previously seen a TV special on how the sudden appearance of moles could be linked with the buildup of cancer, his parents had made him go for a check up.

The doctor found nothing aside from a random built up of red pigments.

. . . looking like a needle wound right over his heart, ready to bleed . . .

. . . ready to . . .

"Jonah! Breakfast's ready!"

His wandering mind recalled by his mother's voice, the boy took a deep breath, schooled his contemplative expression into one of upbeat perkiness, and called back:

"Coming!"

In the dining room, the Clayborns chatted about everything and nothing as they had their breakfast. Eventually, though, the conversation drifted towards a certain direction . . . a direction that had never failed to discomfort Jonah.

"Our son here is certainly the most economically friendly product I've ever helped producing thus far," Mr. Clayborn joked through a mouthful of toast. "I mean, it's been almost three years since we got this shirt for him, and he had YET to outgrow it."

"He *is* a little too thin for his age," Mrs. Clayborn studied her son's sparse figure with concern.

"Son, maybe you should join up with a sports team or something at school," said Mr. Clayborn. "You need to gain some bulk . . ."

"I dislike sports," Jonah remarked in a purposely off-handed manner.

" . . . and friends," Mrs. Clayborn finished her husband's sentence. "It isn't good for a kid your age to be so antisocial."

"I do have friends, Mom," Jonah said as he shoved a bunch of something off his plate and into his mouth without bothering to look at what it was.

"I think your mother is talking about the kind of friends you could be proud of having, Son," said Mr. Clayborn in what he hoped was a diplomatic manner. "You know, like someone on the student council, or a good athlete. But instead, you're hanging out with that - "

"I'mdoneit'slateI'mgoing!" Jonah mumbled through the food in his mouth as he quickly grabbed his bag and dashed out of the house before either of his parents could react.

If there was one thing that Jonah shared in common with other teens his age, it would be his dislike of nagging. For a young male to be nagged at implied that he's still a child, unworthy of the freedom to reach out for what he desires, yearn for. And thus, despite the supposed wonder and magic of childhood, every boy on Earth desires to be treated as a man.

As such, Jonah’s shoulders slumped when he entered the classroom, where the girls he knew greeted him as usual by patting him on his head or running their hands through his chestnut mob with the kind of affection one reserved for kids . . . or worse.

"Jonah is almost sixteen, but his hair is still soft like a puppy's pelt," said the owner of the chubby hand that was idly arranging and rearranging his unruly hair. "Makes me wonder what kind of shampoo his mom buys for him."

"I AM sixteen," Jonah growled with a comedic roll of his impressively large eyes (the comedic part being totally unintentional) "And I buy my own stuff, thank you very much."

The girls merely giggled as if at some secret joke they shared, and left him to himself as they pursue other amusements.

Making a disgusted sound, Jonah settled into his seat. With little to do before class start, he took out his sketchbook, and idly went through the various drawings he had doodled in leisure until he found what he was really looking for: a slender, feminine silhouette with her head arched back in wild ripples of long locks. Together in the drawing was a little poem he made up, which read as follows:

You're as a flower, your voice a sweet and luring scent. Your tales are as exquisite petals, encasing you in layers of mystique.

Jonah's poutiness disappeared as he smiled as if indulging in a sweet dream. No matter how annoying he finds the girls around him to be, he could always have HER to fall back on; the nameless, faceless storyteller who guarded his dreams even as she haunted them . . .

"Still daydreaming away, Jonah?"

Looking up into the sardonic, heavy-lidded eyes of the speaker, Jonah smiled back saccharinely, and asked: "Still tripping away, Cain?"

Cain laughed, lifting up the downward corners of his cynical-looking mouth and actually managing to look pleasant for a moment, before regaining his usual worn-out, shady appearance as he reached out a long-fingered hand to ruffle Jonah's chestnut mop. "You're daring to get smart, twig: that's an improvement."

"Knock it off," Jonah laughingly slapped his hand away while still quietly amazed at the fact that his best friend would be a person so utterly unlike himself, yet so similar.

Cain Walker was the school junkie/dealer, something that made him popular among the rougher kids despite his otherwise standoffish nature. Thus, his acquaintances were largely made up of the rowdier part of the school population, except for Jonah, who doesn't really fit into any particular group but is generally tolerated by everyone.

What had inspired the friendship between them occurred during their first year of high school, when Jonah walked in on Cain taking a sniff of white powdery substance in the boy's room.

"Whacha looking at? Ya got a problem with this?" Cain had slurred at the doe-eyed kid through his drug-induced haze, believing him to be of the goody-two-shoes variety; the kind who love to judge.

The goody-two-shoes, however, was completely nonchalant, as he replied: "Why would I? Everyone needs to take a break from life once in a while."

Impressed that something could have sounded so rational yet so rebellious at the same time, Cain took an immediate liking to the speaker. Jonah, on the other hand, saw a kindred spirit in the drug taking escapist. Thus, the two had been friends ever since.

Jonah knew that his parents had problems with his hanging out with Cain. Knew, yet cared not. For at his age, Jonah had yet to gain the perspectives necessary to understand his parents' point of view. Thus, he had no way of truly relating to a couple's worries over their only child choice of friends. What Jonah could instead see, was that however recklessly Cain had behaved throughout their years of friendship, the hooligan had never once gotten him in trouble. In fact, Cain wouldn't even share his "hobby" with Jonah, saying that he was "too young to touch that stuff" despite their being the same age.

Currently, Cain had seated himself on a corner of Jonah's desk, his finger idly tracing circles around the feminine figure in Jonah's drawing.

"Still hooked on that girl's voice from your recurring dream?" he asked, somewhat knowledgeable of his friend’s dream (and obsession) throughout their years of friendship.

Jonah, his eyes having returned to his own drawing, nodded as he murmured. "Last night marked the forty-ninth time I've had that same dream. It has to mean something; I just don't know what it is yet."

". . . freaky. Hey, listen, if voice is your thing, then perhaps you should try one of those phone-sex hotlines . . ." At a glare from his friend's large, expressive eyes, Cain muttered: "Kidding."

"I'm not looking for just any sweet, sexy voice," Jonah stated with utmost seriousness. "I'm looking for just that one and only voice that could make me feel . . . " his voice trailed off as he blushed.

"Feel what?"

Jonah was hesitant. "I'd rather not say. It's . . . embarrassing."

"Oh, just spill it already!" Cain prompted.

". . . I want to feel . . ." Jonah glanced around briefly before whispering on with a faint flush on his small face, ". . . mesmerized . . . in love."

" . . . in love . . . “ Cain repeated, dubious. “With a voice in a dream?"

"She speaks to my heart, you know," Jonah mumbled, embarrassed but defiant. "And the words she said . . . touches me," his face flushed further as his voice trailed off into the faintest of whispers.

Like a moth fallen into flames, this boy is, thought Cain as he studied his friend. Burning himself up with his impossible dream, like a junky on a fevered high . . .

"No matter how high the trip, Jonah, you've got to come off it sometime or you'll just . . . die."

"Huh?"

"Jonah . . . the girls here like you. They all think you're got this cute puppy thing going for you, and . . . "

"And I'm not interested," Jonah finished the sentence for him.

"Exactly," Cain tapped his fingers over Jonah's drawing. "It is unrealistic of you to choose that voice in your head over real girls."

"Now hold on!" Jonah protested. "All I am trying to do is to find a girl in real life who is like her. It's not like I'm being unrealistic, and . . . Hey! You're smearing my drawing!"

Ignoring Jonah's protest, Cain traced a finger along the outline of the willowy silhouette. "Height: five foot seven; three sizes: thirty-two, twenty, thirty-two . . . "

". . . what are you talking about?" Jonah frowned, but Cain continued on with his mock measuring.

"Weighting in at around ninety-five pounds," the young man cast a disdainful eye over the girls in their class. "You think you'd ever find a girl like that in real life?"

"Maybe not here, but there are supermodels who . . ." Jonah clucked his teeth at the look on Cain's face. "What I'm trying to say is that looks aren't important: it's what's inside that counts. If she's got a mind I can connect with, if we share the same passions, I'll fall for her no matter how she looks . . ."

"Hey! Have you heard about that bitch fight between Jenny and Paula at Josephine's party last night?"

"Oh my God! Did either of them cry? Did Paula tear out Jenny's hair? I want to know ALL about it!"

Jonah hung his head at overhearing the girls' blatantly flamboyant gossiping. Beside him, Cain sighed.

"You really do have a thing for the impossible, don't you?"

Just then, a meek little voice cut into the conversation.

"Um . . . guys."

The two look up to see Job Glasgow, one of the least popular and most bullied boy at school thanks to an alleged "sissy quality", standing before them in all his humbled, washed out presence.

"Cain . . .?" pasty fingers twisted into knots against each other in nervousness. "That SD you got for me last time? It really was wild . . ."

SD? Cute name for a drug, thought Jonah.

"Told you so," Cain smirked.

" . . . I'm kinda wondering if you could get me some more . . ." Job mumbled, somewhat tensely, as if embarrassed at the unreasonableness of his request. "I know I still haven't paid you for the supply from last week . . . But I'll be getting some cash flow going next week, and . . ." he trailed off as Cain produced a small container filled with capsules.

"Free sample," Cain casually put the container of pills right in the teen's palm. "Have fun with it."

"I . . ." the palm closed around the container. "Thanks, man. Thanks a lot."

There was a detectable shiver in his voice.

Job left hurriedly, as Cain stared after his departing figure with a pitying look in his eyes.

"It's cool to escape into fantasies," he sighed. "But in the end, you've got to wake up and face facts: being lonely makes you pathetic. You'd be reduced to Jell-O at even the cheapest, tiniest scrap of kindness people would toss your way . . . it sucks."

Jonah's face tightened at his friend's words of wisdom. "And you're saying this to me . . . why?"

Cain shrugged. "Just because."

"I'm not lonely," Jonah sulked. "I have friends, I hang out with people."

"Yeah, the odd ones . . . excluding me, of course," Cain sighed. "Might as well be honest: the guys are taking your refusal to hook up with any of the school tarts as a sign of gayness. Rumors about you are starting to spread out . . ."

So, the wolf pack is finally singling me out for refusing to fit in and be like them, Jonah realized. But then again . . .

"I never do care about how others see me," Jonah shrugged. "You know that, Cain."

"Yes, but I also know that being different costs people," Cain lit a cigarette (or was it a joint?). "I myself can barely afford it; I doubt if you could."

Jonah turned pensive at hearing that. Everyone at school knew that Cain's wealthy and donation-generous family had been largely responsible for his not getting expelled despite his recreational drug-trade. Jonah, a young man of middle-class background, could offer little to keep the rock throwers from stoning him for being different, except . . .

"What are they going to do to me? Throw me down a flight of stairs? Beat me up in the washroom? This isn't a teen flick: They'd get expelled if they try anything even remotely funny."

"They could turn you into a social outcast like Job," Cain said as he exhaled torrents of smoke. "And those wimp friends you hang out with ain't likely to back you up when that happens."

"Well, you know what? I'd rather be left alone than to suck up to some alpha macho losers who're nosy like their mothers!" Jonah snapped, clearly agitated. "I mean what is this? My personal life has nothing to do with those people! How dare they even think about picking on me over it?!"

"You defiant punk," Cain sighed as he slung an arm around Jonah's thin shoulders. "Look over there, you see David Price?" he gestured at a well-built, flashily handsome blond who is necking with a crude, trashy version of a glamour girl at a corner of the classroom, "Tall, blond, and a star in the making for crying out loud. Has a steady girlfriend even. But none of that ever stop him from chasing skirts. And you know why? Because that's what guys do."

"Being sluts?" Jonah asked, and was rewarded with a slap on the back of his head. "Ow!"

"Fuck, you're hard to teach," Cain grumbled. "Fine, go get bullied or something. What do I care?"

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