petite anglaise

I remember saying to him, only the other day, that I rarely dream about the people who are most important to me. Only once or twice have I seen Tadpole in my dreams, and never once – that I could recall afterwards – did I see Lover.

Once a person has gone, it’s a different matter. Last night in the early hours I drifted in and out of dream upon dream, every single one inhabited by him. It got so I was afraid to close my eyes; the images which flickered behind my eyelids taunted. Wounded.

First, I heard the familiar sound of his breathing, sensed that he was sleeping beside me, where he belonged. I put my arm out to touch the comforting warmth of his chest.

But I knew this was wrong. He couldn’t be here. However real it felt, it was another of my dreams, and anything was possible. I watched, gripped by an inexplicable terror, as he awoke and stared at me, wide eyed. He held my arm in a vice like grip so I couldn’t pull away, then started coughing a hacking cough, vomiting something black and viscous.

Lover decomposed, disintegrated before my horrified eyes, until all that remained beside me was a pool of something dank and horrible, and all the while I screamed “it’s not real, you’re not here, let me wake up”, clawing at my face with my free hand, biting my own fingers, trying to will myself awake.

I awoke. Saw my arm flung across his side of the bed, which was empty.

Wept.