The Story of Blood and Roses

In my dreams, her face was filled with sorrow one moment, and in the next, it had turned into a sneer. The corners of her eyes appeared to tighten; her face became rounder and fuller. In place of her trademark leather jacket and T-shirt, I saw her in the silk pyjamas with ducks on them. Her hands were bound, and someone had a knife at her throat.

It dug into her skin, blood oozing from it, but the expression on her face never changed. Her hatred grew bolder as the knife dug deeper. She knew no pain; she had never experienced a loss that was bigger than the loss of her childhood. She was punishing me for it.

She was making promises she could never keep.

"Someday," she said, "I will kill you with my own hands. I will slice you open from your throat to the navel and then bathe in your blood," she promised. Her lips curled up and she laughed.

I wanted to tell her that I would let her do it if it made her hate me any less, but within seconds, the weight of the world crashed down on her shoulders. The shoulders slumped down for the fraction of a moment, defeated. Then, in a sudden motion, determination glittered in her eyes. She fought back in earnest, pushing her shoulders back and struggling, but the knife slid across her throat and left her choking. Her eyes rolled back as I stared at her helplessly.

I realized too late that I was paralyzed throughout this black hole of a dream. I had wanted to reach out and hold my hands firmly to her wound. There was no chance of survival, but I shook off the frost from my limbs in a moment of strength and ran towards her. As I pressed and tried to stop the blood from soaking her and swallowing her life, I saw her transform.

Her clothes vanished, her eyes sank, and her mouth grew black.

As the days went by, the girl in my arms grew colder, until her face started to blur and turned into sand. I tried to hold on to her, but she slipped through the cracks between my fingers. The tighter I gripped, the faster she slipped away from me.

I cried and pleaded with the gods of war and medicine to listen.

Bring her back to me, I chanted.

The blood in my veins cried her name with each pass.

I held her until her face turned to dust, and all that remained was the stain of her blood on my fingers.

I would wake up every night, awareness coming slowly. The few moments of solace were shattered when I remember where you were-what I did. Those moments were of false comfort.

I seek out those dreams every night just to spend a few more seconds with her, have her in my arms... cry.

But then she faded.

Then, what was existence when you lived in a desert. All your life you kept finding the source of water, where you could rest and gain clarity. For the first time in your insignificant life, you could see the reflection of your face and wonder how you had ended up with such a beautiful face. As you leaned forward to touch the surface, to feel the coolness of the mirror, your image would blur. You would lose yourself in the pursuit of the image, but the grains of sand would blow away your dreams. The mirage of the sanctuary would suddenly break, and you would see your body soaking in every drop of water from the lagoon to satisfy its greed. You would will it to stop, but in the end, your body would rejoice. For a few moments, you would be satisfied with your victory—the nourishment and the gift of life, but in the next, the devastation would set in. You had destroyed the source of your life.

"You killed her," Sean had accused me one fine day, then he just waited for me to deny it.

"I did," I told him.

I have not spoken to him since.