Chapter 4

DYLAN clenched his cold, trembling hands. After being questioned by a few police officers, he rested for a while in the waiting area.

He stood up, unable to calm himself as the chaotic scene replayed vividly in his mind. Everything had happened so fast. In just the blink of an eye, a man's body seemed to vanish completely.

Dylan pressed a hand against his chest, which felt tight. He tried to breathe slowly and leaned against the wall. Numbness crept into his hands and legs. He grabbed onto a wall handle for support.

"That accident was gruesome. I can't even imagine something like that."

The conversation between a few hospital staff near the counter caught Dylan's attention.

"The victim's body was completely mangled. Even the police don't know how to handle a body in that condition."

"Like a chicken being spun in a blender. Imagine that."

"Ugh! Don't make me imagine it. I won't be able to sleep tonight."

"Poor family. How are they even going to handle the burial?"

They all shook their heads in sympathy.

Dylan stared toward the inquiry counter. His ears began to ring, and all sounds became distant and muffled. He decided to walk away from the area.

Suddenly, his steps wobbled. He barely managed to grab onto the counter for balance as dizziness washed over him. The world around him started to spin. Dylan shut his eyes tightly.

"Sir, are you okay?" a man's voice echoed faintly.

Dylan forced his eyes open to see who was speaking. His strained breathing turned into gasps, making him cough in search of air. His heart raced wildly, and it felt like the blood drained from his entire body.

"Sir..."

That was the last thing he heard before collapsing as darkness engulfed his vision.

Silence.

DYLAN opened his eyes, feeling the seat beneath him rocking slightly. A cool breeze hit his face, jolting him fully awake.

He glanced to his right. A young boy was fast asleep beside him. Realizing he was in the back seat of a car, Dylan straightened up and looked out the window on his left. His brows furrowed as confusion clouded his mind.

Slowly, fragments of memory resurfaced, making everything clearer. A shiver ran through his body as his gaze landed on the driver. Dylan clenched his fists, trying to steady his trembling hands.

O God, not this dream again...

Restlessness gnawed at him. Dylan squeezed his eyes shut, hoping he could escape from the scene. But it was futile. He had to face the nightmare once more.

He bit his lip hard, pressing his hands against his head and gripping his hair tightly.

O God, please get me out of this dream.

He kept praying over and over.

A loud crash echoed, making Dylan grip his hair even tighter. The car spun several times before jolting violently to a stop after colliding with something. His father's voice, shouting moments earlier, had gone completely silent.

Dylan didn't dare open his eyes. The sharp scent of fuel filled the air, eerily similar to that fateful accident years ago. Keeping his head down, he forced his eyes open just a sliver. The scene hadn't changed. He was still inside the car.

Slowly, he lifted his head. The nightmare replayed the tragedy from 20 years ago.

Dylan sat frozen, just like he had during the accident. His eyes locked onto his sister's lifeless body slumped over the dashboard, her face smeared with blood, a sight he'd witnessed countless times in this recurring nightmare.

He turned to his right and saw himself as a six-year-old boy, sitting motionless in the car seat, staring blankly at his sister's body pressed against the shattered windshield. Blood trickled endlessly from her head, which had struck the glass hard. His father was slumped over the steering wheel, unconscious, with a minor cut on his left temple.

Tears streamed down Dylan's face as sobs wracked his body. He shook his head, unable to bear the scene any longer. His breathing grew erratic, shallow and uneven.

"Arkh..."

Dylan clutched his chest.

"Arkh!"

His pupils rolled upward as both hands gripped his throat.

"Argh..."

It felt as if something was strangling him, cutting off his air supply.

"Arkh... Donna!"

Dylan's eyes flew open, and he bolted upright. He gasped for breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes wide and unblinking. Realizing it was just a dream, his breathing gradually slowed.

Dylan glanced around. The patient in the bed to his left was staring at him strangely, while the one on his right remained fast asleep. He wiped the cold sweat from his face. Leaning back against the headboard, he sat there quietly, reflecting on the vivid dream that felt far too real.

More than 15 years had passed. Yet the nightmare had returned to haunt his sleep. He'd seen countless doctors, religious healers, and traditional shamans back then. Although the dreams had become less frequent, they never completely went away.

"Mr. Walker, are you okay?" a female nurse asked, possibly having heard his earlier screams.

Dylan simply shook his head.

"The doctor said you're fine. If everything's good, you can be discharged this evening."

"Thanks." He forced a small smile.

Dylan wiped his weary face. The scenes from that accident lingered in his mind, now mixed with the fresh memory of the recent tragedy involving the mysterious man. The sight of blood splattering under the wheels of the heavy vehicle reignited the trauma he had tried so hard to forget.

He examined his trembling hands and leaned back, eyes tightly shut. It was certain. Tonight's sleep would be far from peaceful.

DYLAN sat on the sofa in Wester Studio's gallery, his right hand resting over his left chest. Ever since he returned from the hospital, his heart hadn’t stopped racing. He tried steadying his breath but couldn’t get his heartbeat under control.

A slight frown formed on his forehead as he thought about the accident victim. Even the police couldn't confirm the man’s identity.

“Completely pulverized? Not a single piece left?” Kyle asked, clearly shocked by the incident.

“There was something. His blood—stuck in the tire treads.” Just talking about it made Dylan uneasy. He had spent years trying to rid himself of that trauma, but today it crept back into his mind.

“Okay, forget it. The more you think about it, the clearer the image becomes,” Kyle advised, well aware of his friend’s dark memories. “I’m thinking of displaying this painting at the exhibition. What do you think?” he asked, changing the subject.

Dylan ran his fingers through his hair and face, glancing at the paintings with a vacant stare. He never really understood the soul of an artist. To him, a painting—whether of a cat or a mountain landscape—was just something drawn, colored, and hung as decoration. Nothing more.

He examined the six-foot-square painting Kyle had pointed out. It depicted figures gathered around a campfire, surrounded by trees in a dark forest. The campfire’s light was dim, and the sky was painted in a muted shade of purple.

Dylan squinted, scrutinizing the details. Among the tree trunks, he spotted shapes that resembled snake heads. Not just one, but two heads attached to a single body.

Snakes again?

“Whose work is this?” Dylan asked.

“Eric. His imagination's a bit... different, huh?”

Dylan stared at the painting, trying to decipher its hidden meaning. But nothing came to mind. “Hmm. Speaking of Eric... I’ve known him for ages. He never took anything seriously. Didn't think he had such an artistic soul,” Dylan remarked.

Kyle paused before smiling at Dylan’s comment.

“Since when did you know he could paint? I’ve been friends with him for so long, and I had no idea,” Dylan added.

Kyle sat down next to him. “After graduation, he was unemployed for a while. One day, he came over to my place. We talked about art and soul. He said if art has no soul, it’s meaningless. Same goes for a soul without art—it can’t appreciate life. I asked him if he even knew anything about painting. He drew something on my iPad and showed me a digital piece. That’s when I realized he had talent.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Art needs soul, and soul needs art.” He nodded slowly. “Classic Eric. That’s so him with his life philosophies.”

“But Eric’s not into digital art. He prefers buying brushes, paint sets, and drawing paper, then locking himself in a room filled with paint splatters and messy sheets. That’s Eric for you,” Kyle explained.

Dylan smiled, glancing at Kyle. “What about you? Did you formally study art or something? I’ve never actually seen you paint.”

“If everyone became painters, who would appreciate the paintings?” Kyle quipped with a grin.

Dylan raised an eyebrow and nodded in understanding.

The ringing of Dylan’s phone interrupted their conversation. Seeing the caller ID, Dylan scratched his head awkwardly.

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