I Dream of Angels: The Series by Sage_of_the_Forlorn_Path
An existential love story between a young man haunted by disease and sorrow and his personal goddess. , This story is an existential drama focusing on psychology, depression, and romance. It takes a while to get to the sexual stuff, but don’t worry, there is plenty. If you are looking for a stroke story, please go back to the main page. If you are looking for a deep love story, I hope you enjoy. I hope you’ll be patient and save your votes until the end. Thank you.
Chapter 1
If someone were to ask just who “she” was, I wouldn’t be able to answer, as I hadn’t the slightest clue. A hallucination? Some kind of angel? For the past five years, I would greet each morning with the last warm fingers of a dream clinging to my mind. I’d roll on my side, and lying next to me would be a girl of my age, but with beauty unmatched by anyone else on the planet. With liquid smooth skin as soft as ripe fruit, a complexion shade like that of molten bronze and silver mixed together, and bright blue eyes that held unparalleled kindness and warmth, the very sight of her was like a religious experience. Her most predominant feature was her hair, an elegant crimson that could remove all fear of blood from anyone’s soul. Groups of strands would stick together and then curl towards the end like a tongue of fire, granting her a tempered and yet untamable mane that hung down to her thighs.
Along with the face of a goddess, she had a figure that made a mockery of the word “perfection”. Her glassy-smooth legs seemed to stretch her miles, coming to an end at a full but taut rear end with the shaven entrance to her gates of paradise just barely visible under the folds of the cotton sheet. Her midsection was like that of a bikini model’s, with a concave dip on either side from her perfect slenderness. Cliché as the term was, she certainly had an hourglass figure. Last but not least, even though she looked only eighteen, she had D-Cup breasts that looked as soft as water balloons but firm and lively.
Every day, I would wake up with her beside me, lying in bed naked as if we had spent half of the previous night making sweet, passionate love. Each time, she would appear to almost be faintly glowing, and coupled with her flawless beauty, I was surely justified in calling her an angel. Lying there, I would watch as her eyes opened like the rising sun, letting me stare into her beautiful blues. Staring right back at me with endless love, she would smile, hum, and fall back to sleep. Even while knowing how it would end, I would always reach out and try to touch her, desperate to feel some sort of proof that she was real, but always, she would fade away before I could even stroke her hair.
Suffice to say, I was almost haunted by this “dream”. This girl, this figment of my imagination, was the light of my life and the reason why I went to bed each night and plowed through each day. I had never heard her voice, never touched her, never been able to speak to her, and I didn’t even know her name… yet I loved her. She was my secret, the one aspect of my life that I would never speak of, no matter what. When she first started to appear, I even obsessed over her. I would draw her every night on a sketchpad hidden under my bed, remembering her visage with crystal clarity and moving my hand with skill that I would never accept as my own, mirroring her image with graphite and paper with such closeness that I would hold no doubts as to being possessed.
Ironically, she was actually the only dream I would ever have. I would meet her each morning in a half-awake state, but through the night, my mind’s eye would see nothing but an endless expansion of darkness, in which I would hover aimlessly until waking up. The only variance from the black sky was a single speck of light in the distance, a twinkling star almost completely out of sight, then I would wake up to find the girl beside me. I often wondered if she was that star. She certainly fit the role. She was the light of my life, a light I desperately needed, one of the last few reasons why I was still alive. Being able to wake up and see her each morning, even if for less than a minute, she supplied me with enough will power to endure the life I didn’t want. But I have her, I’ll always have her, and the day she disappears is the day I lose that final reason not to end it all.
But she wasn’t here today. I didn’t expect her to, seeing as how I found myself waking up in the hospital. A bright light had shone through my eyelids, stabbing my already sore brain. I could hear the beeping of a heart monitor nearby. My mind was a jumbled mess from the cocktail of drugs being pumped into me from the IV bags at my side, but I delved into my consciousness in search of answers. I remembered sitting in class… 6th period. Senior Biology was half finished… but there was something wrong. I remembered that my hands had been trembling, even more than usual. My skin was being pricked with invisible needles like all my limbs had fallen asleep, but I couldn’t remember if it had come suddenly or if it had built over time. I remembered the first dagger stabbing me in the back of the neck. I remembered falling out of my chair, roaring in agony as I collapsed to the floor.
But it wasn’t the lights or the beeping that had woken me up. It was the pain burning ceaselessly throughout my body. In the single moment from when I woke up, I went from being fine to feeling like I was in the burn ward, charred from head to toe. My muscles all felt like they were being pierced with hot nails, my organs twisted into knots. I leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited on the floor. My heart monitor was sending a digital scream, bringing in a nurse.
“Kill me!” I screamed as the pain intensified.
I sat on the hospital bed with my worried parents, facing Dr. Turner, a blonde woman in her early thirties. I had an IV bag of morphine hanging next to me, trying to suppress the chronic pain that was ravaging my body. I was receiving the maximum amount possible, but even then, all of my skin felt like a blistering sunburn and my insides faired no better.
“What you experienced in class was a seizure, caused by multiple tumors in your brain, focused on two specific areas. It may be possible for us to kill them with a heavy dose of radiation and chemotherapy, but with how small and numerous these tumors are, the chances are slim. It’s a completely new form of cancer, and we aren’t sure what its long-term effects are.”
My parents started to cry, but I was completely calm. “Is it deadly? What the hell is going on with me?”
“Not in the traditional sense, but we just aren’t completely sure.” She held up an x-ray of my brain and pointed to a light spot. “That is the largest group of tumors and we imagine the oldest. However, whether they have grown over time or have always been there is a mystery. They are attached to your limbic system. Specifically, they are growing from the part of your brain that produces the chemical serotonin, as well as other chemicals that control mood. It appears that they aren’t growing any further, but—”