The King of Hell twists Xavier’s broken arm. The archangel sucks in a breath, gritting his teeth. Mom’s eyes slowly bead with tears. Mine do, too.

“It does pain you.” Armageddon’s mouth bends into an impossibly-large smile. “Good. Because I’ll be doing this for all eternity. Whenever you think of the Senate or your murdered family or sewing one of those silly robes, I want you think of Xavier and how I’m torturing him at that exact moment. Just for you.”

I slam my fists into the force field; it doesn’t budge. I need to kill Armageddon, save Xavier, and help my mom. Let me in!

Mom’s shoulders slump, worry lines appear around eyes. I notice a few gray hairs I hadn’t seen before.

I freeze in place, unable to do anything but watch her sorrow beyond the invisible barrier. Mom steps back, leaning against the outer wall of the house for support. She sets her hand on her rib cage and I can almost hear her heart crack with grief. This is when the weepy, over-worrying version of my mother came to be. I’m so sorry, Mom. I never dreamed this is what happened. I understand now.

Armageddon waves his long and bony hand. “Goodbye, seamstress.” He and Xavier disappear. For a moment, Mom stands still on the front stoop, and then she crumples onto the concrete landing, her shoulders heaving with sobs.

Mom’s body turns back into sand before dissolving into the desert floor. The rest of the scene does the same. The dreamscape ends. Somehow, I know this is the last one.

For what feels like eons, I stare at the Gray Sea, watching the rolling dunes of charcoal-colored sand touch a blue and gray sky. The wind howls through me; sulphur chokes my lungs. I could care less.

One thought keeps churning through my mind: at this moment, somewhere in Hell, Xavier’s being tortured. All because he saved my mother’s life; my life too. Even though I’m deep asleep, I know my face streams with tears.

21

I wake up to the electronic howl of my alarm clock. Bit by bit, I open my eyes and stretch. My pillow’s damp against my cheek. That was one hell of a dreamscape. How do I even begin to talk to Mom about this?

My backpack’s propped against my bedroom wall. I stare at it for a moment. This chat should wait until after school, for both our sakes. I take a deep breath, throw on some sweats and walk into the kitchen. Mom sits at the table, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Her mouth is a thin line.

I forgot. I’m in deep trouble.

“Good morning.” I speed across the room and pretend to be super-interested in the cabinet on the opposite wall.