Sixteen Melinoë
Sixteen
Melino?
My dreams are languid and strange, darkness slurring around me like soiled water. I dream that I’m sinking into a sandpit, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, while a crowd gathers around me and watches. Some of them take photos with their tablets. They jostle and whisper to one another, eyes alight with perverse glee. Azrael is among them.
Please , I try to say, but the words won’t come out. Save me, please, get me out of here .
The crowd just titters and murmurs. And Azrael looks on, gaze cool. My limbs are glued in place. I know it’s a dream because I’m crying, and I haven’t been able to do that since I was a child. They’re silent, salt-laced tears that taste like blood when they reach my lips.
The Lamb is in my dreams, too. A different dream, this time. We’re on the ground in the woods, kneeling face-to-face. I can feel the heavy humidity of the air and the cold, damp leaf pulp beneath us, the water seeping through the fabric of my hunting suit. It all feels real.
She leans forward, until our foreheads are nearly touching, her nose a breath away from mine. The Lamb. Inesa. Her earth-colored eyes gleam, almost giddily, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a smile.
I try to speak, but the words curdle in my throat again.
In a flash, she’s on her feet, bounding into the trees. But it’s not a fearful flight. And she doesn’t go far. She hangs along the edge of the clearing, peeking her head out from behind one of the trees. Her smile widens, as if beckoning me to join her playful chase.
And I want to. My chest burns with how much I want to. But when I rise to stagger toward her, the forest floor falls out from under me. The whole dream shatters like glass.