Torment -- Prologue (original story)

"I've seen a lot of horrible things, and imagined many more. Every time, I'm the guilty party. Is it coincidence, or is there a reason? What don't I know?"

Cyrus woke up with a start, every sense on alert, just like many other mornings. He glanced at his clock, and decided it was time to get up. With the grace of a tiger, Cyrus slid out of bed, eyes darting around. Nothing. Why do I keep feeling this way? He took a step towards his dresser, only to trip over his own feet, clutching his head in pain. Cyrus gripped his face, sliding it though his blue hair, slick with sweat. What a way to wake up from a nightmare...

Cyrus laid on the floor a few minutes, waiting out the pain. Quickly, it subsided, and Cyrus focused on getting dressed: nothing fancy, only a black t-shirt and black pants. Dressed and calm of mind, Cyrus walked into the adjoining room, the kitchen-dining room, and started making toast, his favourite breakfast.

Ten minutes later, Cyrus was seated on the living room couch, staring at the ceiling. It was early Sunday morning, so Cyrus' father was out grocery shopping, and his little brother wouldn't be home from a sleepover. He has the house all to himself—and he hated it. He hated being alone, or rather, he hated the silence. Silence meant his mind was free to wander, and it always drew to two things: his failures, and the nightmares.

"No, please!" A woman's scream echoed. In her eyes, reflected those of another: cold, red, and cursed with the devil. The eyes of a killer. The woman watched her attacker hesitate. Their eyes darted to the side and back, as if indecisive. Only a second passed, before they levelled their weapon with the woman's frightened sapphire orbs.

"Shut up." The single gunshot was all that followed.

The cacophony reverbed inside Cyrus' head several times, breaking his reflective state of mind. This nightmare was a first-person experience, unlike the others, which were third-person. Whose eyes were he using to see the dream? Cyrus walked to the large, wall-mounted mirror in the living room, staring hard into his eyes. He had seen the assailant's eyes in the woman's, and they were harbingers of death. Cyrus stared into his own crimson eyes, wondering. Do my eyes really look so demonic? As he stared into them, his eyes were soft-featured, innocent. The mask of identity? He shook his head to free himself from such thoughts, sighing. I need some noise. No use dwelling on things.

The day came and went without anything out of the ordinary. Cyrus spent his time with homework. His eleventh-grade homework kept him very occupied. Before too long, Cyrus was finished, and looked out of his window.

"Wow. It's night time." He said to himself. "Time for bed, I guess." He went to brush his teeth, before he flicked off the lights, and crawled into bed. Already, he could feel his consciousness drifting, headed for the darkness he sealed away in a corner of his mind. Sleep... He commanded himself. Hurry... Mercifully, Cyrus fell asleep quickly, drifting into blissful unconsciousness. Tonight, there were no nightmares to haunt him, just peaceful darkness. That was, until the spell was broken.

"Cyrus!" Being a light sleeper, Cyrus' eyes flew open immediately. "Cyrus, wake up!" The blue-headed boy sat up, once again alert. He peered into the inky black that pervaded his room. It was still night, meaning the voice wasn't his father's, and Cyrus' brother, Aaron, never woke up at night. Besides, he thought They don't have the voice of a girl... Cyrus didn't live with his mother, meaning it couldn't be her.

"Wake up!" The voice shouted. Cyrus couldn't tell where it was coming from. Left? Right? In front, behind, above, or below?

"I am awake." Cyrus growled under his breath. He pinched himself, secretly unsure. It hurt, just as if he was awake.

"Heed my call..." Cyrus was getting increasingly annoyed.

"Answer mine!" He hissed, reaching for his mp3 player. "Good night." Cyrus closed his eyes, listening to the soothing sound of a piano. Inward, though, he was worried. Who was this? Nearly asleep, Cyrus' eyes opened one more time, pale-faced.

"Let your soul wake, Cyrus." Cyrus' music was loud, and in a crescendo. There was no way that he could hear someone speaking. He couldn't even hear himself think.

"Can you hear me?"

"I can hear you just fine." Cyrus hissed, removing his headphones.

"...Or can you just not speak it?" The voice's words echoed in Cyrus' heart, silencing him, but he didn't know why. Or can I just not speak?

"...I'm sorry, Scramble..." The voice, after apologizing, quieted for the rest of the night.

Groaning, Cyrus rolled out of bed, much like the morning before. The only difference now, was the pervasive fog clouding Cyrus' mind, instead of the piercing alertness that he usually had. Something had happened last night, he was sure. All he had, though, was ghostly images and a woman's voice, in a language he couldn't understand. An Asian language, maybe? Cyrus strained to remember, the fact he couldn't was eating away at him. He felt like he should know.

"Cyrus? Time to get up!" Cyrus' father called. "School today!" I'll figure it out later... Cyrus decided, getting dressed. However, he was slowly piecing it together. Slowly.

Despite trying not to, the now clear memories of last night were all that he could think of, as Cyrus readied himself for school. He suggested to himself, and quickly dismissed, many languages that the voice could have been speaking in. He was missing something, it had to be! It finally came to him, as Cyrus was about to leave his house.

"Bye Dad!" He called over his shoulder. His father's muffled answer fell on deaf ears, lost to Cyrus' thoughts. German! It was German, how could I not notice?! Instantly, something became clear, something he had missed, even when he had originally listened to the woman talk. Cyrus' concentration was focused on two phrases: "I'm sorry, Scramble." and "Or can you just not speak it?". The question, Cyrus decided Must be the woman asking if I could speak German. He wasn't entirely sure, but the idea satisfied him for now. His reason for thinking so, was the apology. The phrase, he realized, has been recalled wrong. What he missed, was the phrase actually being "I'm sorry, Herr Scramble". That one...I'm sure of. Cyrus, standing in the middle of the street, laughed out loud, earning him a few stares from onlookers. One mystery solved. That wasn't so hard. Cyrus still had a couple questions, but it was best to let the issue sit for a while. Only a few moments passed, though, before a single question popped into his head, and it was arguably the most obvious: Why did she call me "Scramble"?

           Speech can be interpreted many different ways, much like music, literature, or art. Is that why there isn't but a single language? What's the reason?

Read and review, as always. I'm a little rusty, and I was never good at writing prologues, so hopefully the writing isn't too stiff. I've got another chapter on paper, so I'm gonna go type that up. Laters. 
P.S. As with anything, it gets (more) interesting after the prologue :P