Even in Dreams

Despite living so close to an airport, we never stopped and truly appreciated the sight of the different passenger flights soaring into the sky. I remember vividly lying one day beside you, recently, watching the vapour trails as another steel bird left for adventures in faraway places.

I wish I had been more inclined to travel, to sit in the hot den of human flatulence, baby soiling, and body odour, to fly off to uncharted places. I know you craved release and relief. If I'm honest, I did too. Our home felt as much like a prison at times as it did a hideaway from the rest of the world.

We tried staycations, but they never really lived up to the hype. I even tried cooking for you once to give you a break. "Remember that?" is a question you never answer.

Sorrow follows me like a bad smell after days without washing, my lack of personal hygiene a testimony to my intimate knowledge of this aspect of grief. I've not dusted in the weeks that have passed since you were taken from this world - from me. That was normally your job, and it doesn't feel right to steal that from you. It feels disingenuous and unkind. To rob your memory of your role in the life we forged. You were always better at it than I was. Meticulous in ways I could never be - I feel the dust even mourns you.

I cling to the memory of your devotion, though I know deep down, it was my making, my demands that truly shaped it.

Your breath, often flustered and laboured, I'm sure I felt on my arm last night. Only to switch the lamp on and realise it was my own hand. Still, though the echo of your form holds me down at night, like grounded metal birds, planes that never leave.

Looking at my visage in the mirror, I almost catch my breath and raise my hand... to greet you, or what I thought was you. It was just a shadow. My shadow.

I look around the house, shuffling as quietly as I used to, to take you by surprise. I shuffle quietly through the house, surveying the fragments of your presence that remain—the lingerie lined up by the days I preferred you to wear it, the shoes to match, the accessories arranged with care.

You were the perfect part of my life. Perfect because you knew your place. I admit that I find it hard. Or found it hard? When does the tense change get easier? I find it hard to stay focused on reality, the gravity of the situation.

I still feel your touch on my knees when I sit in my favourite chair by the window—the one I’ve always claimed since we moved into this house. Our home, though now it feels hollow without you.

Last night, drifting between wakefulness and deep sleep, I felt your hands on my knees, waiting for me to kiss your forehead and tell you how proud I was of the hard work you had done.

You often made me proud.

I miss you making me proud.

You fixed my lunches, every detail exact, every requirement just right, as though I could never do it myself.

The kitchen is quieter. I often play our song, and it feels like you are back there. I still catch the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the kitchen, and I swear it tightens my chest like a leash. I remember the arguments, the debates, as well as the heated grasps and breathless clamours for air when I devoured you. I can feel your throat and how it felt against my mouth and my hand.

The silence makes your voice louder, that trembling whine you'd utter. The emptiness sharpens the echo of your breath, hitched and obstructed.

Sleeping in bed at night without you—your body, that canvas for my lust pressed beside me—is never the same. Though sometimes I feel you there. Giving me your body and your mind. Your attention and your devotion.

I lie alone at night, craving that sense of balance and order, obedience and love. The love you gave to me, at my knees, on your knees. More than love, at least in the simple terms that other people use when they get all mushy. Though a very small part of me is feeling a little mushy now. The mush doesn't last, though. It never lasts.

Instead, it is replaced by longing for you, resisting me as you so often did.

Your pleas thick in the air, but the funny thing is, even in dreams, you never really escape me.

I long for the sound of my open hand finding you, the sharp report of my belt, the pretty tremor of fear in your voice. In my dreams, it happens again and again - your begging, my deafening silence.

No matter how hard you beg, you never leave. Not even in dreams. Not even like those planes.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: I'm sure I'll write a nice story again soon. This, was not pleasant to write, admittedly. But, I think it's a nice angle on the challenge prompt. Hope the subtext is not lost.

I am having trouble embedding links right now. But, if you look at my profile, you'll find more stuff to read.