Muse Musing 3

I met her in my dreams.

I had fallen asleep on the air mattress. It was a summer infested with heat waves, sex, and a fear of the impending bedbugs. My roommate had suddenly begun to explore her sexuality, disregarding my need for a night not filled with poorly muffled moans and groans next door. It called for nap time during the day, if I was ever at home at that point.

That day was 98 degrees Fahrenheit, and I had fallen atop the poorly pumped mattress, after having locked my door, but still hearing the roommate and her sister preparing for a debauched night out. Like in a poorly written movie script; they were reciting things heard most common in movies between two undeveloped female characters. Cliches are cliches for a reason.

Drenched in sweat, head muffled by the heat, I dropped into a different bedroom with sparse furnishing. The large armoire was located next to the bed, a set of drawers on the adjacent wall. There were no windows. The bed was swathed in cloth of deep red, and from what I can remember, fairly comfortable.

Sounds of laughter outside of the bedroom made me aware of my anger. Something must have happened beyond the dream that coaxed me to that room. It was my bedroom--the place I lived and slept and returned to in search of comfort--but it gave the feeling of a guest bedroom. Impersonal. Cold. The way an old enemy raises their eyebrows at the sight of you years later. The intensity of the hatred evaporated; but the lingering disgust remains.

I start packing, and as I do, I feel eyes. From behind. The way it always did, but now, now it's manifesting into being. I can sense it now. Not only eyes. A tongue, a long one. Long, graceful neck, lithe limbs, slender but strong wrists and fingers. She is coming into being, and it's an explosive welcome party. She very nearly slithers out from under the bed, opening her dark maroon eyes for the first time. Her red lips curl into its first smile, and I see brilliantly sharp and white teeth.

I'm stuck between seeing myself from above and from struggling within the confines of the body to escape. I'm not sure. All I can remember is the terror. She wears all white and it frightens me. It wasn't so much the large mouth of white teeth, the deep darkness of her eyes, or her blood-red fingernails reaching for my neck. It was the way the white fabric fluttered behind her with such whimsy that unsettled me. Like it was over. Like I didn't even have a chance.

She was fast, but somehow, I was faster. I threw my knapsack over my shoulder, bolted out of the room, and slammed the door shut behind me. I heard a sickening crack as she made contact with the door. I ran into the midst of drunk party people, hearing only of the cracks as she tries to claw the door open. I heard what I could only explain as an explosion and turned back to see white and red coming at me. I stopped at the patio doors where my mother was standing with a glass of champagne in her hand. She saw me, looked past me, and smiled.

And then I realized that the Woman in White was of her creation. Her creation to destroy me.

I awoke, hearing suffocating silence. I grasped for my cell phone.

For the first time in months, I was extremely glad I was sleeping on an inflatable mattress.

The Return.

Moments like these
where glimpses into
what has past
what should not be present
what will not be future

and yet

it's Halloween all over
again and again
Christmas sweaters
stained in sticky ketchup
and you can't
stop
it

and as you sink
feeling the stickiness
drag you down
into the depths
watching as others
decorated trees
lit candles
sang songs
had family dinners

all you see
is the Nothing looming
all you want to do
is curl up
and
cry

drip drop
drip drip drop

like the sound of her blood
oozing onto the concrete

and you awaken
to a dark room
and whisper,
"Merry Christmas, Mother."