His Little Lady

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Traces of plum and raisin, periwinkle, and grape all wove together a similar mysticism to the Aurora borealis. The constellations paneled earth's dreamscape like a baby swaddled in a blanket, and in awe of the sky’s beauty, eternity yielded to anything folded behind its corners. Wonder hung in the atmosphere just enough to keep the street lights on and accompany the silence of the night. For some, this love dance of the cosmos nurtured them to sleep, while for others, their secrets, tempted by the moon's curiosity, climbed out of their graves looking for trouble. For those who’ve needed it, the night's lore would awaken in them a catharsis of things not yet talked about, those things that demand one's attention but lose their remembrance in the frivolities of the day. Seated at a vanity the sun is gracious enough to reflect beauty to the eyes but the moon and her drawers, containers of uninvited white lies and horror stories, chastise the security of it all. It was under the myriad colors of nightfall, in the realm of dreams and disillusionment that the prodding of truth began to unfold.

It was a hollow, and sturdy quiet. The two of them were standing a distance apart directly facing one another. Iris couldn’t really tell who the other person was but she had no reservations that she might have had during work or a night out with friends, not like in the real world where she was always reluctant to take the next step. Slowly, she made her way toward the mysterious character in her dream. She could start to make out that this “mysterious character” was no stranger at all. The closer she got to the other figure she realized it was her grandmother. Suddenly a sense of calm set in and the void between them adjusted to familiarity. Iris settled into the unexpected reunion admiring the delicacy of how her grandmother's nightgown draped over her wrinkled skin. She looked so peaceful standing there and for a moment Iris was transported with clarity to that feeling of home she so often took for granted. That brief feeling of tenderness could’ve lasted forever if it weren’t for what happened next. An abrupt terror poured out into the void reforming nostalgia into upright fear. The sensibilities between them had vanished and suddenly Iris’ grandmother was a stranger again. Her stomach dropped, even in this world, she felt worse than a fool. Her grandmother's face turned a ghastly cross between human and beast. She had beat red skin and eyes that sunk back into her face as if she no longer needed them to see. Her hair was replaced by sharp stegosaurus-like spikes that jutted out from the top of her head, and her mouth curled into a tight frown. Her body stayed the same, her nightgown still leaning into the soft spots of her bones, the sweetness of her face was long forgotten. As if garnered by prosecution, the thing spoke.

“THIS….IS….A….NIGHTMARE” it said. The timbre in the voice was low but acute as an arrow sending Iris into a frenzy of paranoia that immediately woke her. She was crying in droves and struggled to catch her breath. Terror ran through her body and her blood was coursing with adrenaline. Her heart sank into her bedroom floor while she quietly wept afraid to go back to sleep.

Hours passed and the light of day slipped through Iris’ blinds illuminating the heaps of carryout boxes and laundry strung about her room. The sun warmed her skin, comforting her jet-lagged mind. She replayed the macabre scene in her head, mulling over the sincerity of those four words her grandmother said . “This is a nightmare….this is a nightmare…this is a nightmare…” And it certainly was, even with the light of morning to greet her, Iris knew the wisdom of grandmothers never lied.

It was an uncertain amount of days, several months since Iris and her boyfriend Mark had split. The relationship started full steam ahead; romance, adoration, and lust. He’d won her heart by giving her the sea, and any time she complained, he’d wait there for hours to fish out a pearl so that she might feel better. Marc had a wonderful sense of humor and Iris had a wonderful collection of pearls. Over time, maritime Marc became a martinet monster and developed a loathing for Iris that made her deeply confused. Was it because she kept better company behind his back those few times, or because he had hated himself? She was unsure, but pretty soon she wasn’t a stranger to his violence and once she was used to it, she couldn’t look away. Iris became untraceable the night Marc squeezed her head so tight she heard a swarm of bees' buzzing coming from all around. The ringing filled her ears until she was numb from the vibrations. He worked her up to complete insanity and watched her go through the motions of a disturbed psychosis. Her vision was blurry like she was seeing through a kaleidoscope, shapes, and colors silhouetted the room. What a gift to see the world through glass eyes. Fireworks lit up the sky, falling slowly covering Iris in a pile of soot. The masquerade had started, and the whole circus would show up soon.

“Calm down you're fine. Have a drink. I love you remember?” Marc said these words to her emotionless, watching her like easy prey. Her mind bordered madness but she was frozen in time looking strangely ahead at the wall. The merry-go-round Iris was spinning on pulled her in a million different directions with no intention of slowing down. What just happened? How long had they been arguing, and could anyone hear the yelling coming from the room? The last time things escalated he promised it would never happen again, so what was she doing back here?

He set in on her, and she laid back on the duvet of their hotel bedroom sailing on emptiness. Marc rearranged himself covering Iris’ body with his palm over her mouth. The high kicked her into space. She was orbiting her own body, an old fashioned in her hand reveling at the suckers on earth who’d never had it so good.

Iris missed the war, the drama, and the lateral foreplay of emotions. Whenever a lightbulb would burst, or the furniture in their apartment struck fire, the excitement was in the minefield of traps he had laid out for her. There was twice as much fervor for him now that he was gone and she tussled the throws of her addiction from the prison of her bed. The magic he left in her was a freeze frame she kept running back to of how good it used to be. It wasn’t ideal but it was how she kept the peace in her imagination, clinging to the best of memories, choosing not to see the rest.