Dream

Awake. I had a start. The heart's beating wildly. It'll take a little time to settle. Meanwhile, why did I get up? I wasn't having a dream, I would remember. They're generally vivid. The curtains are apart though, maybe there was a light outside.

It seems dark enough. I doubt it's beyond 3am right now. Wait, no. I came in at 2. Oh, and then, ah, there she is. Well, didn't think she'd be here again. She'll be out by first light. She always does leave before I wake. I do remember tonight though, that's almost a first.

I guess I must draw the curtains. No, too lazy. The moonlight does make a very dramatic pattern on the wall. It's interesting the little things you are willing to pay attention to when you want to distract yourself from the pain. Did I take my medicine tonight? God, I hope so.

There are cars outside. I guess it must be closer to 4 then. I really must sleep. That won't be too difficult. It's easy to wander in your mind. It's just when the pain obscures the thoughts that it's difficult.

In fact its one of my favorite pleasures; falling off to sleep. The feeling of weightlessness and senselessness just before the sleep takes over your mind. It's a wonderful place where emotions and feelings have no place. There's no guilt there, I love that. I hate that I have to long for it most nights. That's where she comes in I guess. I put an arm around her, like so. Yes, the warmth helps.

Eyes shut now, let my mind go.

Sunshine.

I guess I want to be happy tonight.

The dreams seep into his sleep like a mist through the forest. His dreams of sunshine could only last that long. Those are the ones your consciousness makes up to help you drift into a slumber. Once the dreams took hold of him, there was no sunshine. A slight drizzle perhaps. A gloomy cloud and countenance. He was in a hurry too. Was it one of those dreams where he misses the train? No. The pain never allowed easy dreams.

He was on one though now, a train. The landscape rapidly changing around him. In his hand, a bunch of roses. Red. He thought. It was a favorite habit of his. Thinking about colors in his dreams. He never thought it possible to see any then. Roses though, why?

He looked around him. He was in a second class compartment. The people came to his notice just then. Not that they were noticeable. They were all around and yet nowhere. It was as if he were indifferent to them and yet acutely aware of every nuance of their existence. They weren't significant. Not to this plot.

The landscape became darker and bleaker. The trees began to blur with the sky leaving a feeling of melting colors. Distances were dissolving. They seemed not to exist.

Then there was no train, no trees, and no people. He was by himself, the roses starting to wilt. He noticed the edges of the petals turning a dark brown. Yes, colors existed. So did smells. A sharp smell of formaldehyde hit him like a truck. Staggering slightly against the pungent blow, he tried to orient himself.

There was a grave. Oh, I'm dreaming of her. A crack running through it though. Right down the middle. He calmly bent down on one knee, and placed the now dead roses near the grave stone, the crack in the earth not bothering him in the least. He ran his hand along the crack, fingering the loose earth tenderly like a lover's back. He bent down, taking his face near the earth, lips just millimeters away. Turning his head, he listened with his ear to the ground.

Heartbeat. Steady heartbeat. Slow, rhythmic heartbeat. Lulling him into safety, into sleep. Getting faster. Almost imperceptible that, but its growing faster. The beats growing louder and faster by the second. Then the breathing. The shallow forced breathing. A lover's breath, faster and harder with every passing second. Closer, closer, so close he could feel it on his cheek.

Awake. Damn the girl. Her face is almost on top of mine. Have to gently push her away. What's that smell? Can you have smells left over from dreams? She's not her though. No, she could never be. I would be at peace with her. But the smell. And she's cold. Her feet are like ice. No, it must be the air conditioning acting up again. Why doesn't she just pull the blanket? Now I have to hold a stiff piece of ice. She's rigid too.

No, I think I'm dreaming. Dreams and waking are just merging now. That happens. Right? Yes, just dreaming. Just dreaming.

No! This is getting weird. I can feel the damp. The moist earth is invading the sheets. Please, just dream. I can feel the slimy mud between my toes. Something climbing up my calves. Cold wet tendrils creeping up like ivy on a wall. I can just shake them off can't I? If I could move. Please, just dream.

He couldn't shake this off. Not this dream. The cold tendrils took over his body in the form of cold sweat. There was fear now. A freezing hand gripped his heart. Memories flooded his senses. Not dreams now. These were images he'd seen. He'd feared.

The images flashed across his mind. Her body, naked and glistening in the tub. The moonlight marking the patterns of the blinds across her stomach. Within the mosaic of light and shade, he made out the tracks of blood. The already thickening stream trickling from above. The roses fell from his hand as he saw the gaping wound in her neck. Her head hung limply sideways over her shoulder and her long hair obscured almost half the side of her body.

His knees gave way almost the same moment he retched all over the cold, gleaming tiles. He heard somebody shut a door somewhere in the house and that spurred him into action. The rest was a blur of police sirens and the cold steel of the morgue.

Why did he have to keep remembering that time? His dreams seemed to be monopolized, his pain exploited. She'd died. In pain definitely, in fear decidedly, maybe she felt some pleasure. Maybe.

He'd loved her. Adored her beyond reason and hope. But she'd left. She wasn't the one who now lived with tortured images constantly in her head. Not the one who carved her initials over and over again till the wood splintered. Not the one who feared sleep. Feared dreams. Not the one who constantly needed a buzz, a haze, anything that would obscure the present.

He'd loved her. The love had soured though, curdled with resentment till a deep seated hatred had overtaken his heart. A wave of revulsion swept through his senses. The smell permeated through the room again and he felt sick to his stomach. He hated all that was a part of him now. All that now made up his life. The girls. He hated them now for making him need them. The smell why is it here?? She's cold too.

Those days all over again. She'll always be there. She'll always haunt me. She's here! She's here again!

Rising from her cracked grave. Bringing a chill I've never known before. I haven't felt this cold before. Its like my innards are crystallizing. Honing my pain to a sharp point. To the blade of a knife. A thin razor edge. A razor edge of hurt, of anger. An overwhelming urge to lash out, to squeeze.

Her cold rigid throat. Her slit throat. My fingers could wrap around it easily. Then all that's needed is a gentle, yet insistent pressure.

I slowly increase the force. She feels it. Her mouth open. Eyes wide in fright. And then the body arches, and the hands reach up to mine. Thin fingers cannot compare to my hold. The legs are thrashing now and the eyes have panic in them.

The panic slowly resolves into resignation as my force increases. Insistent. And then she gives up. She's limp all over again.

The cold retreats, the warmth envelopes me.

Relax. Just dream.

He woke up finally late that morning. The open curtains allowing a noonday sun to blaze into the bedroom. He was perplexed. She was still there. She always left by first light. She was still there this day. He shook and shook her.

And then he saw his fingerprints on her neck. They had turned purple.