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The Dream

She was made out of butterflies and nightmares

By Leah DeweyPublished 2 years ago 2 min read
The Dream
Photo by Velizar Ivanov on Unsplash

She was a daughter of the occult, christened by darkness. Her dark hair cascading around her, glistening in the twilight. It was as if she carried a blue halo around her, reflecting the sapphires in her eyes. I knew she would be trouble - a slippery slope into sinful pleasures I'd spent my lifetime avoiding. But I couldn't resist her. She came to me like a siren.

She walked through the church quietly. Everyone took notice of her as she passed. She lightly touched the paintings as she passed as if her fingers could read the meaning behind the art. Even the painted saints seemed to recognize this beautiful mage was out of place in the house of God. One of the laywomen approached her discreetly, chastising her for daring to touch the sacred representations. The woman looked confused and appalled at the accusation. I couldn't hear her respond but it sent the laywomen speeding in the other direction with a face as bright as fire.

She noticed me now, as I followed her through the hallowed halls. The organ was starting and I knew I should be in place - ready for the beginning of worship. Instead I followed her as she headed gracefully back out the cherry wood doors.

"What are you doing here?" I asked in curiosity. I cocked my head, finding myself desperate for the answer, for her voice. She offered me a mischievous smile.

"What is your name?" she asked in a voice like melted butterscotch.

"David Alister," I replied quietly.

"David," she repeated with a smirk. I practically swooned as my name escaped her lips. "Nice, strong Christian name. I do believe the correct questions is: what are you doing following me?"

She was right, of course. My actions were absurd. The other boys were probably wondering where I had disappeared to; and were probably fumbling trying to light all the candles without me. I had no answer for her.

She moved closer to me and I could smell her sweet perfume. It was almost too sweet. She placed her hand on my chest and played with the pocket of my white button down.

"Who are you?" I barely managed in a weak voice. She smiled briefly but kept focused on my pocket.

"That's a dangerous question for a good Christian like you."

A strong compulsion came over me, like two magnets being drawn together. I could no longer think straight and gave up trying to understand what was happening. I grasped her cheeks in my hands and placed my mouth on hers. She tasted like candied apples and caramel.

She wrapped her arms around me and we stood embraced in a delicious moment of sin.

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About the Creator

Leah Dewey

I am a novelist with a Masters in Forensic Psychology. I have experience writing in many formats. Follow me down into the dark corners of imagination. Experience thrills & chills through poetry & short stories.

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