Dream

It’s warm and it’s humid.

Outside, it’s dark and it’s cold.

The black windows are sweating. The drops are round and heavy.

And I’m sitting here, patiently, waiting to be digested.

At least the couch is comfy.

The air is thick and tense. How could it not be? But somehow it still feels peaceful, and I feel accomplished.

I fought and fought to get here. I put in everything I had, and in the end it cost me just as much, but I’m ok with that, I think. I’m ok because I did it. I made it.

So now... I wait.

I close my eyes and breathe deep, and deeper still, into all my nooks and hollows.

The flowing air catches all the stress in every muscle, like gunk in drying ponds washed loose by the season’s first rain…

Then, in one big sigh, all the air and anxious waste gushes out, and I empty, deflating over the cushions.

Silence.

Darkness.

Three slow heartbeats and I breathe in again.

My eyes fall open to the oddly patterned ceiling—twisting, arterial, curling in and out of itself—and the whole room pulses, gently.

Without looking elsewhere, I run my hands along the seat, taking in the textures of the fabric, letting my fingers describe the shapes.

They argue what scene to paint, buzzing softly in a space somewhere between and mind and nerve endings, until the static reaches consensus—until the humming becomes harmony:

Linen.

Velvet.

Linen.

Velvet, linen, linen.

Linen, velvet, bumpy velvet.

Bumpy velvet, squishy linen, spongy velvet.

Damp velvet.

Velvet that gets wetter the more I press into it...

This really is the end, isn’t it?

I sigh again. Shorter this time.

I made it.

…But… wait. Why?

Why am I here? Why am I really here?

The room slowly rights itself as I elbow myself up and really take in the room:

A fireplace, but the fire isn’t really crackling, just sort of waving in place like orange seagrass;

The walls, a warm creamy membrane that underlies an intricate spidering filigree of perhaps-copper, if a little red;

The floor that, try as I might, I can neither seem to make sense of or focus on;

The furniture, whose upholstery bleeds into its legs, and whose legs may very well bleed into the floor.

All together, however, the room makes its own kind of sense, and yet something feels off; something feels unwelcome, and it certainly isn’t me (if unfortunately so).

But I’m the only one here…

And then I feel it, like a cool breath on the back of my neck.

I freeze in place.

I can hear something—a whisper?

Two whispers?

Ten?

I can’t move, but I need to, if only to know.

My limbs are stiff; my blood has retreated to my core, where it grows warmer, fast.

I can’t move, and whispers grow louder, prickling my ears.

My racing heart builds heat and, like a cookpot sat above it, my mind begins to simmer.

I can’t move, and something icy, purple, runs along my cheek.

And at last something boils over: running down my spine; crawling out along my bones—an inky skitter; long and many fingers reaching into all my limbs, to wear me like a glove.

I jump and turn, but nothing’s there; the world begins to spin.

Things fall back into place and everything comes back to me.

I’m awake. Again.