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Scribe
Join Date: Mar 2006
Location: The seventh circle of Hell
Gender: Male
Posts: 57
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A White Dream ~700 words
I had a dream last night, and you were in it. It wasn’t the first time I’d had this dream, nor the first time I’d remembered it in the morning, but it was the first time I had slept all the way through it. I’d never gotten to the end before, always waking in a pool of terrified sweat before you- well, before.
Like every other time, it started with a single image, that of a white rose against a deep black background. The rose always seems almost surreal, the stem a bit too long, the thorns too big and sharp, the petals so pristinely white I think they might be glowing. It’s turning slowly, as if stood on a pedestal for display, and despite the thorns I come extraordinarily close to reaching out and seizing it. I begin to wonder why I didn’t take it, and suddenly everything twists,
And you’re holding the rose, twirling it in your fingers, miraculously not pricking yourself on any of the thorns. I bring my eyes up to your face, but as I do it begins snowing, so heavily I can barely see you, though somehow the rose is never obscured. I call out to you, but although neither of us is moving you seem to be getting further and further away from me. The snow is so thick now that I can’t see you at all, and terrified, I start running toward you, only knowing where to go by your gentle sobbing and, of course, I can still see the rose. I follow you for what in the dream seem like days, never getting closer, until I finally am too exhausted to continue, and suddenly everything twists,
And I’ve caught up to you, the snow still swirling between us too thick to see, but I know you’re there. I can feel the warmth of you, smell your scent heavy in the air, hear you crying, ever so softly. And, of course, there’s the rose. I want to ask you why you’re crying, but I’m just so overjoyed to be with you that the only thing I can do is reach out and take you in my arms, never to let go again. Only, my hand touches nothing but air, and the cold of ice floating on the wind. I can still see the rose, but it lies on the ground, half buried in the white. The thorns bite into me as I lift it, but the pain goes as unnoticed as the cold, both unimportant against this sight. There’s blood on the rose, more than just my own, and I know that there was nothing miraculous in your twirling. The rose took it’s toll on you, for every spin it sent those spikes deep into your flesh. I realize I’m weeping only when the tears have frozen in my eyes, and then everything twists,
And I’m at the bridge where we met, and I can’t remember why I’m crying. You look concerned, and ask me something. I brush your question off along with my tears, and pull a small box out of my pocket. Your hands rush to your mouth as I drop to one knee, and when you say yes, I am the happiest I’ve ever been. I reach out to sweep you into my arms, when I see the rose, in the breast pocket of your black coat. Your smile fades as I pull back my hand, and I know I’m coming to the end of the dream. But something’s different this time; the blood still glistens on the shining white petals, though now the thorns had never touched either of us. Your smile disappears completely, replaced by a round O of horror as you see the end of the dream too. The rose is no longer white, but the red of the blood now pouring from the wound, and I suddenly remember why I was crying. I was crying because I didn’t want to have to watch this again, helpless as your eyes, once so bright, close for the last time.
I’m crying again, trying to wash the rose white.
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Think of how stupid the average person is, then remember that half the people in the world are dumber than that.
Last edited by atrophybrain : 09-05-2007 at 02:43 PM.
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