A dream, or was it?

Damp lashes matted together, no sleep for the wicked, or is that no rest? Either or, day three of the sandman’s absence took a toll on not only the body but the mind. You see things when the body lacks a vital need to survive. “nope, I won’t allow you to come. Not tonight, not ever,” she whispered to the dark circles that formed beneath her eyes. If she sleeps, he comes and steals another piece of her flesh. It started with the bite, then a scratch deep within her core, and now, he was stealing tiny slivers of skin each time she closed her eyes. His talent to wash her brain with all the pain that darkened his door placed her in a chokehold without binds.

Stretched out, he rested on the chair next to her bed. A familiar wave of smoke rising from the stick of cancer he inhaled. In the darkness, the tip glowed a cherry red, illuminating his face each time he brought the disease to his lips. His mouth opening, words laid on the tip of his tongue, waiting for her to bring him to life. On his body a fine tailored suit. Italian, along with the shoes. A thin frame, he brought a leg to cross the other, his slender digits tapping a few seconds. Not one to rush, but there were things to accomplish, he exhaled long and slow, exasperated by her negligence of his time. Rotating his wrist, a check to his watch, he didn’t bother with the tools of the youth. Cell phones that took the place of a watch complicated the generation she resided within. Gentle hums, like those of a mother rocking a child, he watched as her eyes dimmed and the green hues darkened once again. 

Lifting, he moved to the bed beside her, his hand stroking her hair softly, the blond tresses losing their shine. His presence in her life was taking her life one slice at a time. Like a treasure map, he traced down her arm. His nails like a feather on her flesh, he left the marks of his heat as he drew his path. She was his, though she fought him each time her eyes opened. It was possession he sought. A temporary fix was all he needed, and she was as timid as a mouse. Would she fight him this time? Retracting his hand, he met her face with a full impact strike. “Time to wake up?” he laughed. Her face reacted before she did, the red welt rising to the surface, his fingerprints defined on her flesh. 

Jolted, she struggled to open her eyes. The lids glued shut with sprinkles of sand from the sleepy fairy. She was forced to stay within the dream, her nails digging into the Egyptian cotton beneath her frame. “Stop it. You cannot touch me. I created you in my mind. I am taking permission away from you,” she screamed. Her voice echoed in her head, hands to her ears to protect the drums from exploding. 

Laughter taunting, he rolled her to her back, his body hovering over what he owned. Curling to the side, his lip held tight, he found her fear to be /cute/. “Once you open Pandora’s box, you unleash the contents into the world. You do not obtain the powers to restrain me, but there is some amusement to your plea for help,” he laughed. Eyes of blue, the color of the deepest ocean, he watched her face before taking his due. As slow as honey, his mouth dropped down to place a kiss on the hollow of her slender neck. His tongue resting on the artery that fed her brain, counting the strike against the surface. It was the call he craved before taking what she offered. A retraction of his jaw, his lips stretched across her neck. His teeth gnawing into her flesh. A sudden rush of blood filled his mouth with a gush of warmth. Gurgles from below, he pulled back, her flesh hanging from the canines, watching as she contracted in a spasmatic need for air. It was the laughter that ricocheted through the room that brought her back from the brink. 

Sitting straight in bed, her hands wrapped tight to her neck to stop the blood, but her fingers dry. He was only a dream within a dream. 

A Dream Within a Dream

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow —

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand —

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep — while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

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