Flashback
My body rests, but my mind does not.
I’m walking through a large wheat field, adorning an old simple mauve dress, tattered toward the bottom. A sure sign that it’s a staple in my wardrobe from whatever era this is.
The setting sun gives a warm glow throughout the sky.
A wooden water bucket sits off to the side of a tall, desolate forest. I spin in slow, familiar circles through the golden fields, like I’ve done this before.
I should be home by now, but something about the air keeps me here longer tonight than usual.
And the beautiful sunset keeps me longer still.
In my dream, I twirl. My hands brush along the uncut millet stalks. Head directed up toward the sky, eyes closed. I spin slowly, soaking up the warm smell of dirt and dry grass. The sound crunching beneath my feet.
A sharp sensation on my fingers shocks me to a halt. Tiny thorns are embedded in most of my fingertips. Looking around, I see that hidden amongst the wheat are thistle plants. Bright purple flowers look back at me mockingly.
I start pulling each thorn out individually.
It is hard with the lack of light, but I remove the last one finally.
Tiny dots of blood have surfaced on my fingers, threatening to spill.
A couple of drops slide down onto the ground.
I wipe the remaining on the earth below, knowing if I get it on my dress my mother will not be pleased.
I feel eyes on me then. It’s just a feeling, but it is sure and strong. Goose pimples erupt over my skin. I turn to the woods, knowing whoever is watching me is just within the trees.
I think there is a faint shadow of a man, but the shadow extends into tree branches. My imagination has really gotten the best of me. The ever-watching presence is still there. It feels so vaguely familiar. Personal.
The eyes burn at my skin, as if whoever is looking through them has finally caught their prey. Just then, a hawk swoops out from the woods and knocks me to my behind in bewilderment. I scramble up, collecting my water bucket and sprinting home as fast as my feet will take me.
As I’m running, my dream then morphs into a small party of sorts, and I am not running anymore, but dancing.
A sunroom that only shows a gloss of moonlight above, helping to discern that it is clearly nighttime.
I know this not only because of the darkness that won’t let me see out the windows, but because white moonflowers creep up and line the glass on the outside of the sunroom walls.
There are four of us, including me. Their faces blur at the edges—recognizable, yet not. I can tell there are two men with magnificent builds holding up glasses of wine that keep sloshing out from the movement of their dance. They seem happy, but also delusionally so.
A very young woman lounges on a small chaise. Dark, demonic, but ethereal art surrounds her. I immediately recognize some of the paintings.
One in particular is a painting of a demon sitting on top of an unconscious woman, her arms outstretched over her head in lustful agony. It is from the Romanticism art movement, and I now see all the art has the same dark, romantic feel.
The woman’s hand is outstretched toward me now. She is trying to hand me something. I take it and roll it around my fingers. It is a small seed of sorts. I realize I am under some type of influence. A slow, drugged haze creeps through my veins. Walls cave in around me.
I look to the girl on the chaise and I can only make out her mouth as she screams.
“LEAVE, Jade, GO!!” A mouth I’ve seen before. Then I see red coats her throat, and oozes down to her exposed chest. Blood. She is still screaming at me.
“His roots will trap you! GO!!” She is coughing up blood as her words sound muddy, wet and thick. I go to reach for her. To save her, but I’m pulled back by manly arms that wrap around me.
It’s then that I wake, heart still racing. Two powerful arms hold me close. My back collides with the shallow breathing of a sleeping man. Ry.
I try to relax into him, but the image of the woman has shaken my mind. I have seen her cherry lips before. I take deep breaths to calm my racing heart, but the drug from my dream still holds its effect.
I can’t shake the eerie feeling that the dream was a warning. My finger aches from phantom pricks, along with the emptiness of a ring that calls to me—now more than ever.