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My death began on the seasonal winds of a dream, one that was barely even a breeze on the skin. I never knew a dream could hold such an omen, should I have paid closer attention to my dreams? Is that the miniscule reason that I find myself the one to blame for this? I say not! For if there was truly no way to justify myself I wouldn’t have spent my time to manipulate my damnation for my corruption.
As a dream it was cryptic in nature and to feed into one’s initial thought and lack of intuition they would much rather call it a spontaneous occurrence. I, however when opening that door and finding myself covered in blood I pondered profoundly as to whether it was an omen of my own or violence I would cause. Those hands drenched in blood from the other side of the door reached out and clasped it’s hand around my neck. I suffocated myself awake with the feeling of my own hands lingering around my neck.
It wasn’t before long that I had fallen back asleep, purgatory was much like this sleep unable to have full awareness of who I am. I lurk down empty hallways that are seemingly endless. They resemble places that I once knew but none of them were quite accurate. There was always a small detail I found that would set everything amiss with no real solution.
Now I was in a place that resembled my old room after opening a door and finding that my blood covered self was not a separate entity to find in this dream. That was now the body that I occupied with a steady stream flowing from my head. Of course my love is nowhere to be found here either, for this was no fantasy, but I'm sure that if it were my beloved Sattame would be present as we would sit next to each other. I'm sure that I would touch her lips and lay her down among the Calla Lilies, the flower I believed resembled her the most and together we would be at peace.181Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVT9o1AGeBf
However I would awaken to find it all for not in the end, though it is true, there was a life I lived beside her in reality. Where I could rest in the fact she was mine everything was mine and I believed it would last forever.
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After dreams would persist I would wake up in my room and stare at a ceiling I did not particularly care for. Rather I would shift over to find my laptop and would begin to type out a long paragraph consisting of run-on sentences that were slurred together. I could refortify them later into proper writing for now I just had to keep the fleeting memory of my dreams somewhere accessible. It wasn't ready to be displayed yet.
I patiently awaited the end of the night in a setting that I was chained to, so much of my life spiraling before my eyes as the hours crept by. If only I had used these moments, used them to my advantage rather than letting them waste away. What remnants of my pitiful life were left behind, the time that I spent indulging in mediocre substance that failed to fulfill me. Not aware of how limited my days truly were, I was not aware that I had so little time to put my words onto paper. Even now I clutch these thoughts clenched with anger at myself.
Furthermore, I believe that no one at my age should ever question this impact whether I had done anything notable for my life to be remembered for my thoughts to be heard and understood. Still I remember looking in that mirror as I had gotten ready every morning for school. I was concluding that if there was even the smallest pigment of life still within me and a breath lip passed upon my lips the world would see me and someone would hear me. Yet it was only a hopeful cry to which silence would echo back.
My family I rarely talked to, I could barely say I even considered them to be my blood that a similar source of life could be running through their veins until mine trickled dry. After all I looked different and acted differently from the rest of them. Many of them had told me that I received it from my distant deceased family member and never accepted further questions.
Every morning I tried my hardest to avoid them. Now I stand on an empty plane scattered with the familiar elements of the downstairs kitchen. I wished for nothing more than for Auntie Carma to say, "Good morning Lune, how did you sleep at all last night."
Because then I would tell her, "No, I had another nightmare and I couldn't go back to sleep." I never realized that in loneliness I would desperately crave such company, I would fantasize about what approval I could receive from others. I would have never expected that it was all affirmation that I hadn't awoken in a virtually lifeless world of purgatory.
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I suppose that's enough of my philosophical inner thoughts when you have been stroked dead at such a young age. I suppose they naturally flow, as you look at your pitiful life and wonder how life would have changed if you were someone different. Someone who lived a much longer life. The morning where it all had begun proceeded just as I had previously mentioned. As I prepared my lunch, eating breakfast had only resulted in me being more hungry throughout the day so I skipped it. Peter was also awake during this time but still finishing up with getting ready. He would follow me downstairs shortly, and Thana ignored me regardless of where she was or what she was doing so I didn't care.
"Well what happened this time?" Auntie Carma always speculated that these dreams had some bizarre deeper meaning. I never trusted her because she was also one of those women who believed rocks protected you from evil spirits and stars determined your future who constantly bounced from religion to religion.
"It was me again but he was covered in blood and he strangled me. I couldn't breathe until I woke up and I could have sworn I was going to die but I woke up." The imagery was still so vivid in my mind it felt as though hands wrapped around my neck and as I couldn't breathe I was paralyzed from fear immovable as my life was drained. Whenever I was talking about my dream Auntie Carma would take time to pour me whatever beverage she was also drinking.
"Wow, that sounds like a drug trip." I vaguely remember that those words were spoken by Peter. My memory fails me occasionally but some imagery and some words remain, they've been engraved within stone.
"Good morning Ace." Auntie Carma cared ever so much for Peter every morning she would embrace him tightly, he only squirmed slightly to theatrically exhibit a struggle. "Now we should look to find the deeper meaning of that dream." She had books filled with those and she was excited shuffling through them.
"If it were up to me I would say you took too many meds and suffered the consequences." Peter was an accusatory individual if anything were left up to him we would live in constant paranoia of each other. He walked over to me and decided to willingly give me a hug despite refusing Auntie Carma’s hug. “But of course I know you well enough to know you are very responsible when consuming such products.”
“That’s enough Ace, it’s time for you two to get going, and by the time you guys are back, I will have a solution for your peril.” Auntie Carma seemed to be lost in fantasies when she stared off into those books of pure superstitious crap. I didn’t want to leave quite yet despite the rose-colored hue of my saturated home drowning out my transparent monochrome. When I stepped past that door I was opaque and it frustrated them.
“I’ll be back a little later than usual, Auntie, I'm helping out my art teacher after school.” I had taken up the hobby of painting in places of solitude after the school had emptied out, I was relieving the teacher of the old art supplies without her knowledge. The idyllic utopia I would paint there I would someday give to the world. A subtle intrusion of chaos within pure peace reminiscent of Achilles shield even.
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