2

My aunt died on a cold afternoon in the middle of September. They told me to act sad, and I could say I did it, even having never met her in my entire life. It was sad, in a way. All my family was there, but no one was crying. They were all wearing black, but no one had any true feelings in their eyes. They were all like me, pretending.

It made me feel a little bad for my aunt. I wondered why mom never took me to meet her, since they were twins. I wondered who she was. Would she like to see her funeral full the way it was, even with a bunch of liars?

I didn't think so.

I was the only teenager in the whole place, which gave me the freedom to do whatever I wanted ("He's just a kid," they would say). I could explore the full house, steal all her books, sell her furniture on the internet. Instead, I just used my freedom to excuse myself and go to the yard on the back of the house, wanting to be alone for a while.

Mom was there. She was the one who told me to act sad, so I supposed she would be inside, with a fake cry or something like that. She was sitting on the grass, smoking.

"Mom?" I approached her slowly.

"Leo, it's you," she forced a smile, "Are you behaving? Where's your dad?"

She would always ask me this. Where is my dad? I never knew. Dad and I avoided each other since I was thirteen and he found out I wasn't into girls. It was hard to explain to him I wasn't into anyone.

Mom got on her feet and brushed my hair with her fingers. She blinked gently, and a small tear left her eyes.

"I should," she started, "I should be angry. We never got along. She left me alone for so long. But I can't stop," she wiped her face with the back of her hand, "I can't stop crying."

I knew nothing about mom and sister story, neither had I a sibling myself to compare, but one could just wonder how it must feel to lose a twin. I didn't have anything to tell her, so I just stood there, trying to look understanding, until she went back to the house, walking slowly.

I waited in the yard until it was time to leave. Dad looked at me and pointed to the car, gesturing I should go first. He and mom would pick some stuff. I laid in the backseat, with my phone in hand. There were some messages, some small ones, nothing really important. I was tired of pretending to be sad, then of actually feeling a little sad.

I thought a lot about mom and the funeral in the next days. She would wake up in the middle of the night and head to the kitchen to cry. I knew it, since I couldn't sleep myself. Dad realized nothing, but again, realizing wasn't his forte.

We never talked again about my aunt. Not even one time. On my next birthday, though, they handed me a small paper box. It was from her. She left me some stuff, which made no sense to me, since we had never met before.

Inside the paper box were a few books and a jewelry box, made of glass, full of small and big necklaces. I put the books on the shelf and kept the box locked in my closet. I had no use for it, but it seemed wrong to simply sell Aunt's things.

The books were from an author called Victor Nevermind, and they were at least fifty years old. The cover told me they weren't the first edition, and a quick internet search showed me Victor Nevermind was in fact, a nineteenth-century writer. He published an eight-volume series, before being murdered. He had no family or friends attending his small funeral, paid by some fans.

I scrolled through the website page. There was no mention of his childhood or anything before his first book. Even after that, his personal life was a bit of a mystery. There were severe photographs with men who supposedly were Victor, but none was confirmed him.

It was enough to catch my interest. I picked what seemed to be the first volume and laid on my bed. My Small Nightmare, was the title, and I let Victor's world fill my imagination.

I wasn't ready for that.

My Small Nightmare blew my mind. The story was simple - a boy finds out he's nothing but a nightmare on someone's head and tries to become a real person - but it stuck me on that bed, reading until morning rose. I was late for school. I was late for everything, but I needed to know the end.

It was after the third period at school featuring me reading a book silently while the teacher talked that I found out the book didn't have an ending at all. The last scene was just cut, and a brief explanation came, telling the reader there would be another volume. I was disappointed and furious when I remembered I had the rest of the volumes at home.

I went home right after school. There was no one at home, so I just sat on the living room's couch and started reading, letting my mind fly away while I consumed the words.

It took me a week to read them all. I'd bring them to school and read at lunchtime. I was used to being an avid reader, and Victor managed to get my interest in a way few authors had done before.

The last book was called "Me, the Nightmare", and it also didn't have an ending. The last scene - with the boy and the king of dreams bargaining, ended abruptly and left no time for interpretations. I would be disappointed if it was any other book, but that one made sense. All the books ended that way as dreams end without warning. Saying I loved it would be belittling it. The book was truly favorite so far, between all the books I had ever read.

I looked into online forums, into online chats. Victor wasn't exactly famous, but some people knew him, for my luck. It was nice dividing some of my time with other fans. I joined the community and was received with arms wide open.

Turns out my editions were pretty rare, and it made me wonder. "Why would my aunt leave it for me?" Why would a woman I never met leave me precious editions of books? Whatever the answer was, I was grateful.

It was one month after finishing the last book that it happened.

I had no idea what it meant at the time. I wish I could know. It would prepare me better.

I opened my eyes slowly, surprised with the clarity. Was it already morning? It seemed like I had slept for a few hours only. I looked at the time on my phone. 3:34 am. Why was it so clear?

It took me a full minute to realize the light was coming from inside my room. A yellow flash, filling all the bedroom. Looked like it was morning.

And in the center of the brightness, was a man.

It wasn't my dad, it was for sure. He looked like dad, in a way, but he was a lot younger. I got up quickly, ready to yell, but no sound came out. My legs wouldn't move, my throat was dry. "Who are you?" and "what are you doing here?" got stuck in my mouth.

The man came closer. So close our noses were almost touching.

"It's not worth it," he said, and his eyes were sad.