Goodnight Sweet Maere

She came to me last night. My sweet sweet Maere.

The one who crawls upon my chest and steals the breath from my lungs.

She weaved her way into my room, slid under the sheets, touched my bare skin.

Branded me hers.

I could have sworn it was real, that burn in my throat as I waited for the sweet relief of breath or death, but dawn has taken her from me -

this morning the marks are gone.

Sunlight seeps through the cracks in my venetian blinds, and I am caught in a dappled dance of night and day.

The alarm clock screams six-fifteen, digits so small I have to drag myself to semi-consciousness to read them.

I hate that fucking clock.

I close my eyes. Will her to find me again.

My sweet sweet Maere.

She lurks in the fringes of slumber, hides in the fractures of my dusty dreamscape. Waits for a perfect nightmare and nothing less.

If I sleep just right, maybe she'll steal my breath once more.

Fingers rest on my shoulder. “It’s time to wake up,” my wife says.

Voice too close.

Room too bright.

Bedsheets constricting, suffocating, my breath trapped and burning in my throat.

I hit snooze on the clock with the tiny digits. “Ten more minutes.”

I close my eyes and pray for a perfect nightmare.

*

Inspired by John Henry Fuseli's "The Nightmare" and a morbid fascination with the Night Hag.