1
AWAKEN
The first dream was one of sorrow, then anger.
They started on the night of Dante's eighteenth birthday. Bliss, he had felt prior, yet now he awoke each night drowning in his own perspiration. He saw everything in the dreams clearly - as if he were the one to truly live them. He felt the emotions of the one whose body he possessed; they lingered in his mind when he awoke. But why was this happening, and why now?
Initially, it puzzled him more than anything, as would any unusual dream. The question of "who" came first: whose eyes was he looking through? Whilst commuting to school, his thoughts grew in conflict among themselves; he considered whether the dream man was simply a manifestation of one's mind, or whether he was, in fact, a real person, and that a supernatural occurrence of extreme rarity was occurring.
He walked to school without lifting his eyes from the pavement; he was focused solely on the dream, leaving no room for even his procedural memory to analyse the familiar surroundings of his hometown. Dante's steps grew faster the more ideas flooded in, garnering confused and judgmental looks. He was not a popular person. Therefore, his unusual behaviour, if one shall call it that, presented here was brushed off by many and simply added to the pile of strangeness around this shaggy-haired, mysterious boy. Typically, the looks he was granted did, in fact, upset him. He did not show it externally, for showing weakness to others' acts is also submitting to them. Yet, his loneliness was irrefutable, and his pain was one of a silent battle. But, for once, he entered the school grounds with a mind full of something other than sorrow: intrigue.
As he entered the school grounds, an air of familiarity, yet also nausea, flooded him, and broke his disillusionment. He was somewhat astonished that his legs had seemingly carried him here themselves, but then suddenly left him in control as they entered their destination. Dread quickly rushed through his nerves, and he did well to avoid eye contact with others. He no longer thought of his dreams, but of others. How did they perceive him, he wondered. Perhaps they were secretly whispering behind his back, even as he walked past. Judgement and laughter seemed to follow his movement, but he found it hard to truly pin down whether the two were directly linked to him or not. His lips trembled whenever he thought about this, in an act to suppress emotion bleeding through his demeanour. Alas, he continued to his class.
Upon coming face-to-face with the class's door, Dante paused, as he always did, to listen to the sound of the room's ignited atmosphere. Audible laughs and wild movement erupted in the room and boomed throughout the hallways. It was as if, to all those inside, the world beyond the room simply did not exist. They laughed and cheered like their lives were centred around that very moment, and nothing mattered. Dante yearned to be included in that experience. To him, the feeling of laughter with friends would feel like freedom.
The class came and went. Dante's focus oscillated between total concentration on his environment and distant thoughts of the dream. This back and forth sometimes caused him to be put on trial by his teacher; he would be asked a question seemingly unanswerable, due to a lack of prior context. Ultimately, he was recognised with the humiliation of laughter as he sat back down in his seat, head low with his hair covering the rising red hue on his face. He was wholly relieved when dismissed from the lesson and started for the library almost immediately with one objective in mind. Scanning his finger along every spine, eyes rapidly reading bold fonts, and quick movement between shelves were seemingly futile, as he came out defeated in his task. The school's library was enormous compared to the other faculties on the grounds; endless rows of dusty shelves were littered everywhere, leaving minimal space between one another. A long desk was placed along the furthest wall for students to study and read at leisure, although it was rare to see more than a handful occupying the seats at a time, unless exams drew near. What he searched for was seemingly absent from the large plethora of books, which seemed to be an impossible feat for Dante to comprehend. His mind quickly became stimulated to a point of explosion, as he clutched his hair in both hands, almost uprooting it.
'Can I help you?' came a voice, soft and dearing.
It was the librarian. Her grey hair curled at the ends and obscured parts of her half-moon glasses. Dante had not yet met her, but she wore a sincere smile that seemed welcoming and eager to help.
'Yes, where would I find books about people?' he replied. He spoke in a way that sounded shaky in his head, and suddenly, he became insecure about his manner of talking.
'What kind of people? Scientists, emperors, power-users?'
'Models.'
'Models?' She was undoubtedly taken aback at his request; never before had someone inquired about such a topic, for the material on models was seemingly scarce and limited to one book only.
They wandered into a new territory for Dante, and a book was procured from the depths of a bookcase unlike the others; this was, somehow, far dirtier than its neighbours, but it contained just as many books; although, its contents did consist of miscellaneous texts with no correlation to the ones around it. The librarian took from the shelf a blank-covered book with the title of Modelling through the years inscribed in gold italic, half faded. Dante thanked the librarian and occupied the closest chair at the table.
The book was old. Very old. The pages were brown along all sides with spots of unidentifiable marks scattered everywhere. Initially, he was hesitant to even open it; the thought of touching the pages alone caused him to want to rub away the dirt from his fingertips. Finally, after much contemplation, he succumbed to his intrigue and opened the book to the glossary, for he knew exactly what name to look for.
The first dream was minimal and revealed little of its context or meaning. Yet one name, out of everything, stood out to Dante; in fact, it rang throughout his mind from the moment he awoke. Something inside of him was causing this name to sound familiar, and react to it in uncontrollable outbursts. And then he found it:
Page 444, Covering years 1500-1510, "The Romantic Era of Fashion and Modelling", pioneered by the "Sprezzatura", Giorgio Valentine.
That was him. That was the name Dante had heard and felt echo to the inner depths of his soul in his dream: Giorgio Valentine. Reading it sent shivers throughout his body, whilst also unlocking a heavy burden from his heart; he could not explain what this feeling was, only that his soul felt as if it had just opened itself up to another. But he, this Giorgio Valentine, was from 500 years ago; Dante had never heard of, nor seen him prior to the dream, so why was his presence suddenly emerging? He could wait no longer; he must read everything there is about him.
Alas, what was written about Giorgio was extremely finite. His name stretched only to half a page's length and ended abruptly, leaving Dante with more questions than he had initially:
However, Giorgio's sudden disappearance left the fashion world in turmoil, for he was, arguably, the most influential of all time. Where Valentine went is wholly unknown to the public. Some suggest that he fell out of love with the art, whilst others suggest a more sinister end, relating to his rumoured 'power-user' stance. Yet his legacy and pioneering of the "Romantic Era" has remained the blueprint of all today's fashion, and cemented him as one of history's greatest models.
Dante could not contain all his thoughts into one singular and coherent idea. This vague extract told him very little and was confusing to understand; why did he disappear, and was he truly a power-user? He wanted to try to understand these mysteries better, but he considered it futile to even attempt further research, for the book already stated that, publicly, Giorgio's disappearance is unknown. It seemed superficial to suggest, but also reasonable: Giorgio Valentine is known by no one outside of his modelling. Therefore, Dante suggested that using a more extreme technique was needed if he was to uncover more about who it was he saw in his dreams.
The school day had finished, and Dante rushed out of the doors without sharing his gaze with anyone. His brisk steps were really in response to a desperate attempt to avoid running into Karo. A year older than Dante, Karo routinely harassed and even beat Dante till he could not move from a fetal position. He had never shed blood before, and no visible markings alluded to the sufferings Dante went through; therefore, he never told anyone about it. Yet, every day, he dreaded their meeting and Karo's ruthless antics, which were seemingly committed, not for extortion or blackmail, but for joy. Dante was completely defenceless against him, both physically and mentally, for Dante could never find the courage to fight back.
He was approaching the gate when a voice came from his left, and a hand placed on his right shoulder; 'Hey, where are you going so soon? My favourite part of the day is coming; were you really gonna deprive me of it?'
His sinister smile and cunning tone stabbed Dante sharper than a blade. His stomach boiled to a feverish sickness, and he knew he was trapped. To a passerby, they looked as though they were friends; Karo kept his arm around Dante's shoulder to disable him from fleeing, all the while retaining his deceptive grin. And they stayed like this until they reached a far-off alley where other life was never seen, and voices were not heard. Dante suffered the beatings of Karo. Both fist and foot were thrusted to his stomach; he suffered blows to the back of the head and was pummeled to the ground every time an attempt to rise was made. Wishing not to kill Dante and deprive himself of future pleasure, Karo departed from the motionless Dante after yawning and stretching his limbs, as one does after tiresome exercise.
After some time, and making sure Karo had left the area at a good distance, Dante arose. He had become somewhat accustomed to the aftermath of this, so he was able to walk on and recover relatively fast. Furthermore, he now walked with an objective and determination in his heart; it was with him during his incursion with Karo and acted as a beacon of hope.
Dante wandered through streets unbeknownst to him. As he approached his destination, the people around him became scarcer, and the streets spoke louder with their jagged stone paths, which rattled under one's feet at every step. The scent of tobacco and alcohol was fragrant from all corners of the area, combining into one sweet yet repulsive smell. His head spun the further he went on, as if the area had possessed his mind in an attempt to make him leave. As he crossed the road to the other side, litter of all kinds flew in his way and stuck themselves onto every inch of his body like a tornado. He could feel the grime in the atmosphere clogging up his airways, suffocating him every second. It was as if he had entered another world. Although the sun remained visible and steadfast in its positioning, the streets Dante found himself in were deceptive in their time, for it felt like a constant darkness was around him, due to every building and street lamp being completely void of any light. Only shadows remained here.
A sudden chill attacked Dante; it was viscous and heart-wrenching, pulling and tearing at the tissues in his body. He felt a presence close to him, perhaps even directly behind him. It circled him, turning his blood to freezing ice; his hair rose on his pale arms, teeth chattering. He had never felt this before. What was happening to him? The weather was steadfast - the sun shining as brightly and wholly as it had done only moments ago. Yet, he felt as if he had been placed in a freezer overnight. Sickness overcame him, combating his nerves, relinquishing all feeling of hope. Gingerly, he felt the presence grow extremely close; it reached for his shoulder, and he even felt a slight motion contort the fabric of his shirt. And then it was gone. A violent gust of wind came and went, and then everything returned to normal: no chill, no presence. It was as if an illness had been cured in an instant. Dante knew not what had happened, but his stride grew exponentially, and he did not stop for anything, fearful that what had been so close to him might return more powerful. Finally, after stumbling through much torment and melancholic scenery, he reached the psychic's estate.