‹ Prequel: Chasing Imagination
Sequel: Martyr's Run

Hurricane Heart

Before the Dreamers

Hurricane

I turned away from the window, hope running through my veins, adrenaline pumping so that I could scarcely stay still. Every muscle in my body was tensed, ready, ready for action.

But of course I did not show it. I had already felt too much emotion in these recent days. To show it would be even worse.

‘Hurricane?’ Arjan asked. He looked like he had sensed the mood, but also like he was ready for something. Maybe it was just my imagination in overdrive, but I felt he was hugely intuitive and receptive; far more so than most people.

I could almost sense by his tone of voice, and by the intense, secretive mood he had picked up from the room, what he was going to say before he said it.

‘Tell me something.’ It was not a question as it usually was.

‘Tell you what?’ I asked, not moving from the safety of my window sill.

‘Tell me about you,’ he said. ‘How long have you been Hurricane?’

‘Why should I tell you that?’ I muttered instinctively. He looked disappointed, averting his eyes, and I began to think. It was hardly a probing question; he just wanted to know whether it was a nickname I had always adopted, or whether it was far more recent.

I debated which angle to take.

‘Not long,’ I replied, and he looked up in hope that I might finally answer him. ‘Not always; but I think I like it more than any ordinary name. I’ve never seen a hurricane, but I know enough about them. The name means power; confidence; presence. It makes me feel like I am able to do what I want to do. And I guess it’s imaginative too.’

The power was the real reason I’d adopted this name specifically. It made me feel like I had more power than I actually had; like I could sweep into a city and make everyone cower in fear, running underground, away from me. It also sounded solitary. Hurricanes did not rely on anything but themselves. That was the way my life had been for quite a while now.

‘What made you become a Dreamer?’ Arjan continued. I didn’t like this question so much. I perched on the thick window sill, indicating that I was probably going to be here for a while, not wanting to leave the comfort of my night of endless possibilities.

‘Most of us prefer not to talk about it,’ I whispered solemnly. ‘At first, you ask everyone; you bring it up like any other topic of conversation. Yet you soon see how the faces of Dreamers cloud over with sorrow when you say it, and you stop. For most people, it involves stories of loss and betrayal and torment.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Arjan mumbled.

I continued to look into his downturned eyes until he met my stare once again.

‘I’ll tell you something,’ I whispered, feeling my heart ache in remorse at his sorrowful expression. ‘I can explain it briefly, but don’t ask too much of me.’

‘Go on,’ he prompted gently.

‘I was seventeen,’ I said. ‘One day, my parents said they were going out. I did not know where, and they would not tell me. As it happened, they were attending a protest; you remember them, I imagine?’

‘The ones in Eastern Europe?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’ll remember them. As I’m sure you’re aware, it did no good, but many people were arrested. It was the last time the Dreamers ever made themselves properly public. My parents went. I had no idea that they were rebels until after they were gone.

‘They were out all day, and then I heard about it on the news—it was a hugely biased report, as I’m sure you can imagine. That night, they did not return, and they did not return for many nights. As days went on, I began to realise they weren’t coming home. I didn’t want them to be Dreamers. In my eyes they were my role models; strong, law-abiding citizens.

‘But they were still out there somewhere, though dead or alive, I did not know. And over the weeks that followed, I felt the presence of the Dreamers all around me. I began to go insane, because the mere mention that my parents were part of the resistance was enough to knock down a wall inside my mind; a wall that had been there since the day I was born. And I began to think. And I began to dream. The police came to our house to arrange foster care for my brothers and I, but I knew that my life was not mine anymore. I realised my parents must have asked the Dreamers to come looking for us, because I could feel these strangers stalking me through every part of my life.

‘And do you know what I did, Arjan? I left. I knew it was bad, but my brothers could handle one night on their own before they were taken in by a new family. I didn’t dare tell them where I was going. Even I did not know what I was doing.

‘But, I began to dream, and openly, too. I managed to break down the walls of my bullshit-filled mind, and I began to imagine. For my parents’ sake, I began to imagine.

‘The police found me within days, and I was carted off to prison for six months, sadly, not with my parents. And it was not just a mere prison, but one that was like an asylum. I was insane by that point—there were voices inside my head and everything. I couldn’t control imagination; I didn’t know what was real and what was the work of my mind.

‘And it was from that day that I knew what I wanted to do, but it was also from that day that I knew I could never love again. Because love meant insanity. Love meant loss. Neither could survive without the other, so I decided to leave both behind. I left everything behind—emotion of any kind; leaving my family and my friends and my home and my old life. I became just myself, fighting for what I alone believed in. I never saw my parents or my brothers again, but I shut out all the pain that caused me, and replaced it with a will to fight. The Dreamers seemed to like my rebellious, resilient streak, and they approached me after I was set free, now a bitter, resentful shadow of my former self. Since then, I became a Dreamer, and a great one too, because no challenge was too dangerous or too hard. I was prepared to do anything, and I did not have to be afraid of loss, because I had nothing left to lose. Despite my cold exterior, I was needed to lead these dangerous missions, and for that reason I was respected, though I don’t imagine they liked me much.’

'That's...awful,' Arjan murmured. I could see he was surprised that I had told him so much. And he was sad too; it was hardly a happy story after all. Even I was sad, but of course I didn't show it. The sadness was well hidden behind an immaculate mask.

‘But what about the Institution?’ Arjan asked. ‘You said you went there too.’ I turned away towards the night, breathing out deeply and keeping the pain of reliving memories shut up inside, only the reflection in the window showing anything of how I really felt.

I looked at him mysteriously, a dark, dangerous edge showing through. ‘You want to know about the Institution?’

‘It’s a morbid fascination we humans all have,’ he said, laughing nervously. ‘You told me how terrible it was; of course I now want to know more.’

I closed my eyes, and the memories came to life inside my mind. I could do this. I could relive the torment, for him, though there was no reason good enough for doing so. I knew I would feel the same if someone was keeping such dark information from me.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'll post the next chapter right now, but be prepared: it's going to be a pretty long one, because there's no appropriate place to cut it.