The Dream

They always started the same way.

She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, the round one with the crooked leg that makes the whole thing wobble. She was sipping cold coffee, the taste and texture like sludge sliding down her throat.

"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your fears."

He didn't know what true fear was.

While sitting at the table, coffee in hand, she would watch herself in a mirror. It was precisely at eye level. Sometimes it seemed to ripple, ever so slightly, whenever she would turn her head away.

The dream always started this way.

Though she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw everything. It was as if she were peering through a kitchen window, watching herself struggle to swallow coffee, even as she watched her reflection in the mirror. With the panoramic view, she would watch the door behind her open and the darkness would creep in.

It was thick, like tar and it radiated with heat. It oozed into the cracks in the ceramic floor and pumped from the holes in the violet wallpaper. She would watch herself in the mirror, seemingly glued to her chair with no place to run. She would watch from the window as the darkness congealed into human like shapes and slid across the floor.

"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your relationship with your mother."

It was true that her mother had abused her. That she had forced her to sit at the table, eating cold and, sometimes, rotten food that she had refused to eat days before. Sometimes she would make her sit and stare at her face in the mirror, sometimes for hours. She only did that after she'd beaten her though.

"Look at the bruises flowering on your skin." she'd say, slapping her hard across the mouth. "You look so pretty."

This was normal. For years, she couldn't look at herself in the mirror, except in her dreams. In the dream she was glued to her face.

Usually, around this point in the dream, she could startle herself awake and away from the suffocating darkness. In the quiet stillness of her childhood bedroom she would hug her knees and whisper to the darkness that she would be a good girl.

This was something she had not told the psychologist. She had been living with the darkness for years beyond when her mother had lived. And, when her mother committed suicide in the basement, she had stayed in the house with the corpse for at least a day before calling the ambulance. In the cool shadows of the basement, she watched her mother's body tremble with the weight of sins.

She kept the house because there was no other place to go. And her mother would be angry if she left her behind.

The dream started over as soon as she closed her eyes. Always the same.

She sits at the table. The round one with the crooked leg, all of the world around her wobbling on uneven ground. She stares at her face. Funny, this is the first time she has seen it un-bruised. There isn't even a cut. Why is she staring at herself, when there is no imperfection to make her beautiful?

From outside the room, she can see the creeping darkness. It flows, like molasses, shifting into figures not quite human and not quite alien. Something feels off.

She watches herself take a sip of coffee, slugging it back like a shot. She feels it, like hot coals, slithering down her throat, tripping her gag reflex. She sputters, but doesn't quite spit it all up.

The darkness glides closer and closer; evolving, shifting, changing and undulating. Its hands wrap around her throat, choking her. It slams her head into the table, cracking the crooked leg against the ceramic floor with the percussive resonance of gunfire.

Looking up, she sees her face is bleeding. Bruising begins around her eyes; the years of bruises branding her purple and yellow against the violet wallpaper. The darkness slams her face into the table again.

The table breaks under the force and she feels her face begin to cave. The darkness forces her to the floor and the ceramic seems to swallow her.

Her mother looks at her, smiling.

"Look how pretty you are."

Bubbles

The girls giggled at the parade of butterflies and bubbles.
He worked magic just for them, their eyes glowing with joy.

Shock

He kissed her; quick as lightning and just as shocking.
She looked at him, breathless.
He kissed her again, taking his time.
When she kissed him back, he pressed against her to share the shock.

Scarecrow

She was surprised to find, when she kissed the scarecrow prince, that she loved him.
His amber eyes glint like the wheat fields back home.
Home was standing in front of her, begging her to stay.

Aspen

I always dream of you in Aspen.
Though you are never quite there.
You are always in a snowy dream, muted by the lighting.
The trees cloaked in white, your breath in puffy clouds.
Then the leaves turn. They are gold and red and fluttering.
You always turn the leaves. They blush in your presence.
And, while you are away in Aspen, I am dreaming.

Timing.

Give your grace to me and maybe open the doors to let me breathe. This isn't about right or wrong, its about unity. I am begging you to see, wishing for a little more time to change reality to fantasy, but its all lost in a second's tick.

The clock keeps ticking.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

It never ends. It never stops. Your voice is getting drowned out by the clocks. Could you scream a little louder? Your whispers are too soft. Am I losing you in the ticking of the clock?

I keep screaming.
Scream.
Scream.
Scream.

Do you ever hear a word I say? Or is it all just part of the play? Are we getting older or are we just losing composure? I'm not sure where the meaning is in all of this lunacy, but I'm tired of wilting when I'm supposed to be something more.

You've lost that loving feeling.
Love.
Feelings.
Lost.

And the moment is over. We're done. Its all forgotten, because the clock keeps tocking, or maybe its ticking and rhymes are foolish metaphors for the slow, inevitable, decay of humanity.

Isn't it funny?

The First Time.

It was the first time I killed a man. It was an accident; that first death. It was completely unintentional. The ones that followed were much more fulfilling, but who can forget their first?

His name was Jack. He was twelve and he had white-blonde hair paired with light brown eyes. He was riding his bike by the railroad tracks that day. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. For him, it was the last.

I was thirteen. Gangly and awkward. I was sitting on the tracks, watching him do donuts and chewing on a piece of taffy. He was getting bored, you could tell by the way he kept stopping to stare down the tracks.

"Do you want to race?" he asked, stopping beside me. I swallowed my last bite of taffy and shrugged.

"Why not?" I replied. He climbed off the bike and we stood on the rails. He cheated, by starting first, taking off before an actual count could be made. At thirteen, this pissed me off and I ran as fast as I ever have. I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him to the ground.

"Hey, get off asshole." He struggled, trying to shove me off. But I was bigger and I pinned him. Sitting on his chest, I held his head and bashed it against the rocky ground. He screamed only once before he began to seize under me.

His struggling frightened and intrigued me. I continued to sit on his chest and watched his eyes roll back into his skull. I left him there, ostensibly to get help. It was not my intention to kill him. He just shouldn't have cheated. When I returned, his body was pulped by the train, all evidence of my crime wiped away.

Dear Santa,

Dear Santa,
At fifty-three, one would think I was far too old to write you. But even fifty-three-year-olds can have wishes for Christmas.

When you fly into Chicago, this year, could you bring back my husband? I miss him most during this time. He used to help me string popcorn and twirl me under the mistletoe. When he kissed me I believed anything was possible.

He made me feel most alive, even as he was dying.

Please, Santa, if you have any power over death, bring him back to me so we can live another fifty years together.

Sincerely,
Anna.

The Lie

"Excuse me," said a wiry man, his arms full of parcels in festive prints.

"Oh, of course." replied a, slightly, weathered woman. Her arms were also laden with packages to be sent off. Her snow-white hair hung limply and her gray eyes held no joy. She was tired. Tired of the holidays, tired of the loneliness, just tired. She shuffled a little so that the younger man could reach a mailing sticker. He looked a little like her son, Brian.

The last time she had seen him was twenty years before. Or maybe twenty-five now, she couldn't quite remember. She studied the man a little, pretending to be studying the mailing dates so her boxes would arrive by Christmas. He was tall and thin. A Roman nose holding up John Lennon glasses. His sandy hair was streaked with gray and white. His tourmaline eyes were sad, but they still held a flicker of hope.

"Brian?" she asked, looking at him with open intensity.

"Yes?" he replied. If he recognized her, he didn't show it. He had a patient smile plastered across his face.

"Brian, its me. Your mother; Angela. Do you not recognize me?" She felt a tremor of foreboding. It was him.

"I'm sorry. My mother died when I was twenty." He went back to his packages and she left before she began to cry. He watched her leave before he whispered, "Hi, Mom."

Shoes

They are black.
Cloth with a sliver of sole, but full of soul.
They cover, but barely conceal, my toes in a gentle rounding.
The inside is leopard print to remind me that there is more to me than meets any eye and, no matter how down I am, seeing that print makes me smile.
They do not restrict me, rather they hold me and let me go with no hassle or tears.

Scarlett

It was her lipstick. It wasn't subtle, much like the wearer. It was bright and loud, proclaiming just as much as her words. When she walked in the room everyone stared, locked on her lips as she passed.

"We weren't expecting you this evening, Scarlett." said Andrew, sipping his lavender tea.

"As if I could resist the events you and Alan have cooked up for tonight." she winked, slightly wrinkling her nose. He knew that look all too well. She had mischief in mind, her lipstick staining her lips like bloody leaves and her autumn colored hair free flowing.

She was dressed for battle.

The lust he felt surging through him made their eyes lock and she smiled, again, before she was gone.

"Scarlett," he whispered, feeling out of breath. She had come, prepared for war with Alan, and he was helpless to stop it. Would it always be like this? How long had he been divided between them? Three years? Four?

He followed her through the ballroom, her red dress trailing like a bloody ribbon behind her. She would turn to smile at him, her red lips revealing glistening white teeth.

It was too little too late when he finally caught her. Alan's white suit was blooming flowers and Scarlett's lipstick was smeared across the marble floor. Even the silence screamed with the loss.

Sisters

Taking a cue from Jeremy, I put on my best smile.

This is the most uncomfortable I think I've ever been. Its bad enough that I forgot my deodorant and my hair looks like a rat's residence. But seeing him like this; his arm around her waist and his lips precariously close to her glittering earlobe, could kill me.

I'm over-dramatic, but I can't help the lump growing in my throat. It tastes like regret and vomit.

"You look lovely, Annie." he says. He smiles, again. Did his hand tighten around her waist? Or is that my imagination?

"Thank you." I say, though I accuse him of lying. In the privacy of my head. "You look like you are doing well."

"Well, Pam and I just got married," he says, nonchalantly. As if I hadn't noticed the sterling silver band on his finger the moment he walked in. "We're getting ready to close on our first house, so we're pretty excited."

"Congratulations!" I say, congratulating myself for sounding halfway sincere.

We chit-chat for what feels like, an uncomfortably, long time. I leave them with a chipper good-night before heading to the roof to smoke.

I puff thoughtfully, gazing off and into the night sky. A shooting star streaks through the set patterns. Rearranging more than the cloud patterns.

"Those things will kill you, you know." says a voice. Startled, I jump to my feet and drop my cigarette.

"Sorry." he says, sheepishly. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"What the fuck did you think would happen?" I shout, both embarrassed and scared. Who is this guy?

"I'm Eli." he says, as if he heard my thought waves. He stretches out a hand to shake, looking sufficiently apologetic.

"Annie." I say, taking his hand in mine. "What are you doing on the roof?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"I needed a break from the meet and greet session downstairs."

"Same. Can I bum one of those from you?" he gestures at the pack I dropped and I retrieve one for him.

We sit in semi-comfortable silence for a few minutes before we hear the gymnasium doors open below us. Jenny traipses through, tilting drunkenly onto the football field. Her red hair is plastered to her face and neck, a beer in her hand.

"What's Jenny doing?" I wonder, out loud.

"Don't know." Eli shrugs.

"I better go get her. The last thing she needs is to fall and hurt herself." I push myself to a standing position and dust myself off. Eli also stands and escorts me to the staircase. I give him my pack of cigarettes. He smiles and pretends to tip an invisible hat to me.

Jenny dances in lopsided circles across the dewy grass. She has her shoes off, like always.

"Sis, let's go home." I say, picking up her debris. "You've had enough."

"I've not." she replies. She doesn't even look at me, her eyes locked on something only she sees.

"C'mon, Jen. Its getting chilly."

Relationships.

At the beginning it was sex and candy,
whiling away all of our hours on Marcy's playground.
We dreamed in disco flavoured lemonades,
pouring all of ourselves into the world.

In the middle we were a year full of ninths,
building crescendos and falling notes.
The ticking clocks became symphonic, symbolic,
dipping down and screaming back up.

At the end the life we built in Eden had changed,
I painted pictures you couldn't see.
You said the angels had shifted their faces,
you'd forgotten the chorus to our melodies.