Hazy Dreams.
Disclaimer: If these were mine would I be writing these? Hmmm probably. Not mine never will be.
Xanya is my Pet, and this story is for her… and Kajsa who gave me the challenge that started this drabble.
….
Sometimes the dreams were hazy, colours and sounds seemed dimmed, voices muffled and forgotten almost as soon as she awoke. Sometimes they were like fingers trailing across her cheek, so real one moment, but just a half remembered sensation the next. But sometimes, sometimes they were so real, so vivid that they were seared in her memory, never far from her thoughts, affecting every decision she made.
With every vivid dream she has, she compares it to the others. Sometimes the dreams ended in gunfire; glittering bullets sending sudden death. Sometimes the dreams ended in passion, gleaming blue eyes and golden curls. Sometimes the dreams ended in red, glistering wounds and pain-filled sobs.
But every dream always starts the same, a pale apartment and a blood red rose. His voice echoing, clear precise words tumbling out of his mouth, but she can't understand anything. He reachers out his hand and that's where the similarities end.
Sometimes in his hand is a jewel, a ring or a blooded knife. Sometimes the knife is clean but his hands are covered in blood. Sometimes the hands are empty but they keep reaching forward, towards her, through her and then he is gone.
In the pale apartment there is always a mirror, glided with gold and engraved with strange dancers that move like snakes, arms above their heads dancing to a beat only they can hear. From one dream to another the mirror changes. Sometimes it's broken beyond repair and in others it's filled with a black void, a white sleep or pictures that never reflect that pale apartment, or tortured skin, green fields, dark alleyways and smoke filled nightclubs.
Sometimes she steps through the mirror into the image, other times she follows him as he leads her onwards. Other times there is a doorway to walk through, or a masked man to chase. Sometimes his hands are still reaching out and her voice hisses past cold lips "You will never tell me will you?" and as a gun whispers red, his words sound as if they are an after thought "One day time I might."
Oh be a pet and review. (Yes patronising is an art)