From the alarm clock on the nightstand, red digital numbers glowed 3:02 through a dark bedroom. Suddenly, the room was suffused by silver beams of light as a cloud that had occluded the full moon continued its journey across the sky. Sullivan, glazed in cold sweat, with blankets and sheets kicked and pulled this and that way, betokening a struggle in this sleep, awoke with a scream in the safety of his bedroom.
Hyperventilating from the last gruesome scene of him being beleaguered by skeletons who proceeded to tear him apart limb by limb, he was relieved to find out it was all a dream. Inspect his body for cuts, bruises, or anything else out of sort, he sighed with the increasing confidence of that terrible experience's fictitious nature.
Sullivan laughed at himself. "Of course it was a dream. What else could it possibly be? That I actually awakened some temporal affinity instead of darkness?"
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But suddenly, Sullivan was unsure. This incertitude possessed Sullivan and cause him to rise, exit his bedroom and then house, and start running through the street while the full moon hung over head, illuminating the sunlight absent world with its cold rays.
It was undeniable; his physical capabilities had drastically improved. He felt almost like he was flying as he raced down the street with the speed of an Olympic runner. It was an amazing sensation, to run so fast without panting or tiring. Sullivan was far from athletic, and even shirked gym class and any physical exercise, but tonight he ran like he could not live without it; like he was born to run.
By the time Sullivan stopped running, he was well over twenty miles away from his house. Sullivan gazed up at the moon with a nonplussed face like a statue's. He was unsure where to begin in extricating what was true from what he did not want to be true.
"How much of that was dream—" he stared down at his trembling hands "—and how much of that will prove to be prophecy." Said Sullivan ominously.
