House of the Celestials: Crown of Stars Rewrite

-Sam-

Sterling residences

Howard area, Chicago

Terra, Gaea Solar system

Neutral Free zone

January 14th 2019

6:00 AM

Across a vast field strewn with the bodies of the fallen, a lone figure walked, unhurried and indifferent. The ground was soaked in blood, forming crimson streams that carved through the carnage. The stench of decay mingled with the sharp tang of iron, thick in the air, but the figure seemed unfazed by the morbid atmosphere. Scattered across the battlefield were survivors—individuals clad in strange armaments and uniforms, their movements sluggish and disoriented. The figure paid them no mind and stopped at the edge of a shimmering crimson pool. She gazed at the reflection staring back from the bloodied surface: a face with oval-shaped features and olive-brown skin, framed by alien-green hair tied in an intricate braid. She wore emerald armor that hugged her lithe form, its gleam marred by streaks of blood and grime. In her hands rested a longsword, its blade heavy with death.

The face was hers, yet it felt foreign—like wearing the memories of another. Her introspection shattered as a spark of thunder cracked through the silence, followed by a flash of lightning. Something erupted from the pool, a shadowy tendril that snaked around her with impossible speed. Before she could react, it pulled her into the dark depths. She struggled, thrashing and clawing toward the surface, but her strength ebbed away like sand through her fingers. The darkness whispered to her, its voice seductive and relentless. She hesitated, the weight of her exhaustion pressing down like an anchor. The urge to resist faltered, replaced by an aching desire for release. Maybe it was time to stop fighting. To surrender. And as the abyss enveloped her, she let herself sink, drawn deeper into the embrace of the darkness...

Sam jolted awake, her body shooting up from the couch as panic gripped her chest. Her breath came in frantic gasps, her heart hammering against her ribcage. It was the fourth time. The fourth time she'd woken up in terror, her mind still tethered to the nightmare. She pressed her hand to her chest, forcing herself to breathe deeply. The sound of her inhales and exhales was deafening as if she were swallowing all the air in the room. Her eyes darted around Henry's apartment, making sure she was truly awake. No battlefield, no blood, just the familiar, dimly lit walls. She climbed out of the couch, her limbs heavy with dread, and stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror greeted her with a reflection she barely recognized: swollen eyes, a face puffy and blotched with tears. She hated staring at herself, the sight always reminding her of the toll the nightmares took. Dark circles under her eyes—signs of sleepless nights—marked her skin, evidence of how the torment never let up. She couldn't escape it. The tension from the nightmare lingered, a tight knot in her stomach, the sensation of drowning still raw. She had fought with everything she had, but the pull of the abyss felt endless, suffocating.

Sam closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then began the exercise her therapist had taught her. Count to five. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Repeat. It helped… sometimes. But not today. The pressure never truly went away, not for her. She always felt it, deep in the pit of her mind. Still, the exercise made it easier to ignore. She opened the drawer and hesitated. Her fingers brushed the pill bottle, then paused. She wasn't sure anymore. It had been six months since she started taking them again, a desperate decision she had hoped never to repeat. She had thought she could control her affliction, make it blend into the background of her life. For a while, it had worked. She'd even convinced herself it was just part of who she was. But she had been wrong. The illusion of control had shattered that night—the night everything had spiraled out of her hands. She could still see the blood, feel the pulse of it in her veins, but she knew better than to dwell on it. She couldn't change what happened. With a steadying breath, Sam opened the bottle, took two pills, and swallowed them dry. She chased them with a sip of water from the cup by the sink. Just then, there was a knock at the door. It swung open slightly, and Henry's head popped inside.

"Are you feeling okay?" Henry asked, his voice soft but laced with concern. He did his best to mask the worry on his face, but Sam saw right through him. His emotions spilled out, mixing with hers so intensely that it was almost suffocating. Damn, the pills were taking too long to kick in.

"I should be heading out soon," Sam replied, her voice flat. The faint trace of annoyance flickered across Henry's face, only to be quickly replaced by more concern for her well-being. Sam fought to ignore it. Their relationship was over. She had tried—tried so hard—to have something normal, to feel normal. But normal was something she could never achieve. She was far from it. Henry had been so supportive since that night, but no matter how much he cared, things between them had never truly gotten better. Sam couldn't keep using him to fill the emptiness inside her. The guilt gnawed at her constantly. So, she had made the decision—ended it. She had told him the night before, hoping that he would understand. But Henry hadn't taken it well. The sadness in his eyes had been too much for her, but there was nothing he could do to change her mind. Henry had left soon after, giving her space to gather herself. Sam stood, wiping her face in the bathroom, the weight of her emotions pressing down on her. She packed her things into a bag, everything she needed to take back to her dorm. She couldn't stay here, not in the place that held so many memories of what had been and what would never be again.

*

Sam stepped out of Denning's Donut, a cup of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. She scrolled through her missed calls, stopping at a number she had been avoiding for a while: Stella's. The call had come through while Sam was back at her dorm, but she hadn't felt like talking to her aunt. It had been a long time since they last spoke—since Stella had visited her in the hospital last year, to be precise. Their relationship was complicated. While Stella worried constantly about Sam and treated her like she was fragile, Sam couldn't shake the discomfort she felt around her. Especially the way Stella had treated her during her teenage years. Sam had lashed out the moment she was released from the hospital, and since then, their communication had dwindled to almost nothing.

A pang of guilt tugged at her. Maybe she had been too harsh. But Stella had never liked Henry, and her disapproval had driven Sam further away, especially after everything that had happened with their relationship. Now that Sam had ended things with Henry, the last thing she wanted to hear was another lecture from her aunt. She pushed the thought aside and tucked her phone into her pocket, walking through the gates of Yesh University. The sprawling campus stretched over 6,078 acres, its grandiose buildings towering in the distance. Sam couldn't help but smile as she took in the sight. Yesh University was world-renowned—prestigious, tough, and home to some of the most successful and famous alumni. If you wanted to make something of yourself in this world, this was the place to be.

It felt right to Sam. For some inexplicable reason, she knew this was where she belonged. And by a stroke of luck, she'd earned a scholarship that allowed her to choose any campus across the country. She'd picked the one in Chicago, partly to escape the weight of New York, and, inadvertently, to distance herself from Stella. The decision had strained their already fragile relationship, but Sam had needed to get away from the memories of her past life in Cedar Lake. The familiar guilt crept up again, but Sam shook it off and turned her focus to the task at hand—her first day of class. Music Performance II. She headed toward the auditorium where the class was being held, the weight of her cello pressing against her back. It was still an instrument she was getting used to, but she had discovered a love for it. Composing music was still her dream, though, and it was hard not to wonder if she'd ever get there.

Standing outside the door, Sam took a deep breath. It had been two weeks since she returned to school after a break, a break that had seen her struggling in most of her first-year classes. Music was the one subject she had excelled in, and now she was moving up to the next level. As she peeked through the window, she saw the auditorium was packed with students, each of them looking just as nervous as she felt. A lump formed in Sam's throat. It was her first step toward something new. She just hoped it was enough.

"Sam," a voice called out.

Turning, Sam saw an acquaintance from last year—Callum Ayida. He was of average height, with dark skin and short, curly hair. His dashiki t-shirt and jeans complemented the large bag slung across his back, no doubt filled with his musical instrument.

"Callum," Sam greeted, remembering him as someone who had been friendly to her during their classes the previous year. She recalled how he'd invited her to various social events, but her anxiety around strangers had led her to decline every time.

"You heading in?" Callum asked, noticing her hesitation. Sam nodded, stepping toward the auditorium doors with Callum following behind her.

"So, how was your weekend?" he asked casually as they walked.

"It was great," Sam replied, doing her best to keep her voice neutral as they entered the auditorium. The room was already buzzing with students. Callum nodded at her before making his way toward the back, where the Tuba players were gathering, while Sam found a spot among the cellists. Her eyes scanned the room, and she sighed. The only empty seat was next to Rosalinda Chavez, or Rosa, as everyone called her. Rosa flashed a warm smile at Sam, which she returned as she slid into the seat. Sam could feel the weight of eyes on her, whispers in the air, but she chose to ignore them. Rumors still circulated about her—about everything—but today, Sam wasn't going to let it affect her. She had a goal now. Her focus was clear. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but Sam quickly silenced it. The professor for the class, Professor Cessian, had entered the room, ready to begin.

"Today, we'll be going over the assignment I gave you last week," Professor Cessian began, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the students. A few groans echoed through the room, but Sam wasn't fazed. She reached into her bag and pulled out the musical notes she had composed. Music had always been her refuge, and becoming a composer for the Edelman Symphony Orchestra was her dream. If everything went according to plan, she wouldn't just be a composer—she could be the principal conductor. That was the goal.

When her turn came, Sam stood and walked to the front with her cello. Her heart raced in her chest. She could feel the weight of the stares from her peers, but she forced herself to block them out.

Clear your thoughts. Focus on your breathing. Play from deep within your heart.

Her mantra steadying her, Sam began to play. At first, the notes came slowly, like she was tuning her instrument to perfection. But then, the melody unfolded, building in tempo and intensity. The sound of the cello filled the auditorium, the euphonious tones capturing the attention of every student in the room. Her fingers danced across the strings as the music grew faster, more intricate. By the final notes, she slowed down again, ending the piece with a delicate touch. Sam's heart pounded as she lowered her bow, taking a deep breath. The applause that followed felt like a weight lifted. She glanced over to Rosa, who was clapping fiercely, a stunned expression on her face.

"Bravo, Samantha," Professor Cessian said, a smile on his face. "Glad to see you're back in top shape. Next!" The rest of the class proceeded with their performances while Sam stayed at the back, crossing through her notes. She felt a nagging sensation as if something wasn't quite right, so she checked them over again to make sure everything was in order.

"Sam! Sam!"

Startled, Sam looked up. The class had ended, and most students were leaving. Rosa was already packed up and ready to go.

"Shit," Sam muttered, quickly gathering her things—her cello and notes—before following Rosa out of the auditorium.

"So, how's Henry?" Rosa asked casually, but Sam flinched at the mention of his name. Before things had gotten serious with Henry, Sam and Rosa had briefly dated. Sam had ended it to give Henry a chance, but their breakup had been far from smooth. Since then, she and Rosa had barely spoken.

"He's okay," Sam replied, her voice flat. She didn't mention the breakup.

"I saw him this morning," Rosa continued, her voice tinged with a strange aura. Sam ignored the red hue surrounding her, knowing it was Rosa's emotional control slipping. "He was over by the Art building. Didn't seem to be looking too well. Is everything okay?"

"As okay as it can be," Sam replied, her tone distant. Rosa's aura shifted from dislike to concern, the red fading as she processed Sam's response.

"I heard about what happened…" Rosa began. "I wasn't sure if you wanted me to visit, after everything… after the way I acted."

"It's okay," Sam said, her voice flat. She wasn't one to dwell on the past—there were things she'd rather forget. Rosa stared at her for a moment, before offering a small smile. Sam noticed the faint bluish aura around her, followed by a slight vibration that transmitted the emotions that accompanied it. Part of Rosa still wanted her, still craved her presence. Sam knew it wasn't healthy, but despite the pills she'd taken, she could still sense it. The feeling wasn't as intense as it would have been without the medication, but it lingered, stubbornly hanging in the air. It had been hours since Sam had taken the pills—why was her affliction still so strong?

"Do you have a class next? We could grab—"

"I have therapy this afternoon," Sam interrupted. She could see the disappointment flash across Rosa's face without her saying a word. She could smell it, feel it, even. "I'll see you later."

Without waiting for a response, Sam quickly turned and left, pulling her phone from her pocket. She dialed Stella's number and walked to the nearest restroom. As soon as she entered a stall, the call connected.

"Samantha, finally, dear," Stella's voice came through low and a little distant.

"Did I call at a bad time?" Sam asked.

"It's a busy day at the clinic," Stella replied. She was a doctor back in Cedar Lake with her clinic that she had established back in their hometown, and Sam could still remember those long overnight shifts Stella used to work. "How are you, Samantha?"

"I'm fine," Sam lied, her voice betraying the discomfort she felt. She wanted to tell Stella that the pills weren't working the same anymore, that something felt off, that the nightmares were keeping her awake. She wanted to mention Henry and the distance between them, but the words just wouldn't come.

"Are you taking the pills?" Stella's question was firm, as it always was. She'd been insistent about making sure Sam took the herbal pills she'd given her, pills that helped manage Sam's affliction. Sam had tried to ask Stella where she got them, but Stella was always silent when asked, as though the source was something she wasn't willing to share. Sam had taken them faithfully because they worked—better than any regular medication or alcohol had.

"I mailed the next prescription, so it should be arriving at your dorm soon," Stella added.

"Thanks," Sam replied quietly, her mind still swirling.

"Sam..."

"I have to go," Sam said quickly, cutting the call before Stella could say more. She exited the stall and walked over to the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Despite her olive-toned skin, her face looked unusually pale, and the dark circles under her eyes seemed more pronounced than ever. Sam could feel the pressure building in her chest, and the tightness in her throat, and she fought to take a steady breath. Closing her eyes, she began the counting exercise her therapist had taught her.

One... two... three...

She repeated the process until she felt the weight on her chest lift until the tightness in her lungs eased. With a deep breath, Sam regained her composure and walked out of the restroom, the buzzing thoughts in her mind quieter now—but still present.

****

Sam listened to the steady ticking of the clock across from her, trying to match her breathing to its rhythm as she struggled to keep her body from fidgeting. She couldn't understand why she was so nervous. After all, she had been coming to this appointment for most of her break from school. Her eyes scanned the room, which was decorated in a sea of white. The couch she sat on was upholstered in white fabric, with white pillows scattered around it. Even the woman sitting across from her—a calm presence in the white chair—was dressed in a white V-neck polka dot jumpsuit. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun, though a single strand had escaped, falling loosely beside her face. The woman had a notepad in her lap, jotting something down about Sam. For the fourth time that day, Sam wondered what exactly she was writing about her. In the center of the room, a white table held a white folder, which Sam knew contained her medical files. It had been given to her by the school when she first began seeing Dr. Dingle. Sam glanced at her watch, her impatience mounting. She couldn't wait to leave, to get back to school, to be anywhere but here. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips as she began tapping her hand on her knees, her feet eventually syncing with the ticking clock. Dr. Dingle, ever calm, was surprised by how nervous Sam seemed today. Normally, the soothing atmosphere of the room, and the gentle presence of the doctor, made Sam feel at ease. But today, nothing seemed to quell the nervous energy that radiated from her.

"So, Samantha, How has it been back to school?" Dr. Dingle asked.

"It's been... nice, I guess," Sam's fidgeting increased, causing her to use her left hand to grip her right one. She knew Dr. Dingle had noticed, but she said nothing about it. "Sorry... but I'm kind of not feeling good today."

"There's nothing to apologize for. It's quite normal to feel that way after a breakup," Dr. Dingle said.

"That's the problem," Sam said, her voice strained. "I don't want to feel things. I... I just want to be normal."

"Are you still having those nightmares?" Dr. Dingle asked. Sam pressed her palm over her lap, the edges of her anxiety fraying at the seams. She didn't want to talk about the nightmares, but she knew she had to be honest. She nodded.

"I had one again," Sam said, staring down at her fingers. "I was walking through a battlefield. I... I had just finished fighting. Just finished killing so many people." Her voice faltered. "So many bodies. Too much blood. Too much death. I... I couldn't stand it anymore. I wanted to drown, to be sucked away by the current, but I kept fighting it. Kept struggling... I... I knew if I let go, the current would take me, but I didn't. I kept fighting. Kept killing... taking life like it was nothing." She closed her hands into fists, the memory of the nightmare making her feel sick. There was more to it, things she hadn't said, but she kept them buried. "I know it sounds crazy. I mean, I read comics and fantasy, but..."

"It's not crazy," Dr. Dingle said, her voice soft but firm. "Sometimes our minds use dreams as a way to communicate with us, using imagery and scenarios to show us our inner desires. Yours just happens to be framed in fantasy settings."

"And what do I want?" Sam asked, her voice almost a whisper.

"You tell me, Sam," Dr. Dingle said. "It's your dream." Sam was quiet for a moment as she thought hard about it.

"To live," She replied. "To live my life."

"Hmm. That's interesting." Dr. Dingle said as she wrote more stuff down. "I believe your nightmare represents the struggles you've faced and how far you've come to overcome them. You've made progress, but you're still healing." She paused, her gaze gentle. "Let's talk about your music. How's the writing going?"

"It's... okay," Sam replied. Dr. Dingle raised an eyebrow, prompting Sam to look down at her boots, avoiding her gaze. There was a brief moment of silence before Dr. Dingle stared at her, waiting. Sam met her eyes but remained silent.

"You don't want to talk about it," Dr. Dingle said, reading Sam's hesitation.

"You suffered a horrible trauma, Samantha," Dr. Dingle continued, her tone unwavering. "I don't deny that. But I don't think you've dealt with it fully."

"Dealt with it?" Sam asked, her voice a little defensive.

"You lost your mother at childbirth," Dr. Dingle said as she glanced at her notes. "You lost your father at a young age..."

"I never knew my mother... at least my biological mother," Sam said quietly. She'd thought about that for most of her life. "But I have Stella, though."

"Have you spoken to her since you left home?" Dr. Dingle asked, her voice probing but gentle.

Sam nervously bit her lip, thinking about Stella. Their relationship had become so strained that Sam felt a pang of shame whenever she thought about it, let alone spoke to her.

"No... Yes... Maybe, but... I..." Sam stopped, unsure of how to explain her relationship with her Aunt. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to disclose—like how she could feel the emotions of others, how the moods of those around her could shift depending on her feelings. And how this affliction was at the core of her struggles. But she could never share that side of herself. She couldn't talk about the other nightmares she had either—nightmares of an entire city being swallowed by the ocean, millions dead, the sky crashing down on the earth. She couldn't tell Dr. Dingle any more of what haunted her dreams. It didn't matter what her mind was trying to communicate, what those dreams meant. Sam just wanted them to stop. She didn't want anyone to think she was crazy, at least not any more than she probably appeared right now.

"What does Stella have to do with my trauma?" Sam asked, her voice tense.

"Sam," Dr. Dingle said, her tone patient but firm. She let the silence linger for a moment before continuing. "You've dealt with loss for most of your life, to the point that it's become a part of you, like a scar." Sam absentmindedly rubbed the sleeve of her left arm, the memory of a particular night still fresh, the thin scar beneath it throbbing with the recollection. "Normally, such loss would push someone past the brink, yet you've survived. You've done the work. You're here—alive, attending one of the most prestigious universities. Your life is what you make of it. But letting fear dictate your decisions isn't the way forward."

"You think I'm letting fear make my decisions?" Sam asked, her voice laced with a mix of defensiveness and uncertainty.

"When it comes to your relationship with your Aunt, yes," Dr. Dingle replied calmly. Sam opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come. "I believe the root of your nightmares lies in the deep-seated guilt and fear you carry inside. Until you confront it, you'll never truly feel at peace with the life you're trying to build."