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Description
He heard her call out in the night: a blood murdering scream; the same piercing crimson eyes; then darkness.  Just like every night before; Andrew jolted awake.  His ice blue eyes wide with fear.  He was scrunched up and shaking, although the room was, as always, unconditionally warm.  Beads of sweat covered his face and neck, and gathered between each rib and fold of skin.  Beneath his rib cage his heart pounded with the ferocity that it had the first time, and his breathing was just as rapid, just a shallow: just as frightened.
Frozen in the warp, reflecting on his latest dream; he saw no difference, no alteration to the horror he had to relive each and every night.  He stayed in that position, curled into a tight ball, in the corner of his single bed with his thick, winter, navy duvet wrapped round him, shielding him: and clutching his navy feather pillow.
After time had passed, it is impossible to tell how much time, he pulled his arm from the safe clutches of the duvet and reached for the clear glass of tap water he always kept beside his bed. Taking a sip, he realised that his breathing, although still slightly irregular, had slowed.  Returning the glass back to its cork coaster the arm now reached behind his head and flicked on the light switch; a flood of colour dazzled his eyes and as they adjusted, he sighed, and decided, like he did every night, to go and take a bath to calm his body.
The water lapped up his chest and the bubbles ticked the nape of his neck: sending a tingling sensation down his spine.  Once again he repeated the only words that kept him going: "dreaming only happens in your mind: don't fret until the day imagination becomes reality" and that day, of course, will never happen, Andrew mused to himself.
A voice, those eyes, the darkness: all a dream.
About twenty miles north of where Andrew lay in the bath, another person lay sleeping; completely unaware of her past, of her future: of her importance.

Description
He heard her call out in the night: a blood murdering scream; the same piercing crimson eyes; then darkness.  Just like every night before; Andrew jolted awake.  His ice blue eyes wide with fear.  He was scrunched up and shaking, although the room was, as always, unconditionally warm.  Beads of sweat covered his face and neck, and gathered between each rib and fold of skin.  Beneath his rib cage his heart pounded with the ferocity that it had the first time, and his breathing was just as rapid, just a shallow: just as frightened.
Frozen in the warp, reflecting on his latest dream; he saw no difference, no alteration to the horror he had to relive each and every night.  He stayed in that position, curled into a tight ball, in the corner of his single bed with his thick, winter, navy duvet wrapped round him, shielding him: and clutching his navy feather pillow.
After time had passed, it is impossible to tell how much time, he pulled his arm from the safe clutches of the duvet and reached for the clear glass of tap water he always kept beside his bed. Taking a sip, he realised that his breathing, although still slightly irregular, had slowed.  Returning the glass back to its cork coaster the arm now reached behind his head and flicked on the light switch; a flood of colour dazzled his eyes and as they adjusted, he sighed, and decided, like he did every night, to go and take a bath to calm his body.
The water lapped up his chest and the bubbles ticked the nape of his neck: sending a tingling sensation down his spine.  Once again he repeated the only words that kept him going: "dreaming only happens in your mind: don't fret until the day imagination becomes reality" and that day, of course, will never happen, Andrew mused to himself.
A voice, those eyes, the darkness: all a dream.
About twenty miles north of where Andrew lay in the bath, another person lay sleeping; completely unaware of her past, of her future: of her importance.