Horror, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

Dreams and nightmares.

I had a dream last night. Onw which woke me from a deepened sleep that had been started with a soft and subtle flame across the room from where I slept.

I had place a hard wood log upon the embers to burn slowly through the night, so my morning would be made easy to build a fire on old embers to cook and keep myself warm.

The dark of night was held at bay when I curled myself in bed. The darkness encroaches upon the light, ever present, but thriving in its season.

My eyes drew to a close as the blanket held my warmth. The world slipped away as my sight grew black, and the world become anew and woven of my own thoughts.

It starts as so often is does. I find myself where I long to be, without surprise or reason. It seems as though I have always been in this place, that it is what all things have been.

The home I have is fortified and far to the middle of nothing, defendable to armies where ever stray dogs would never see.

My children play with great joy and innocent violence, as one child pushes another, or steals a toy without a reason for hardship save for the excuse of wanting what the other had.

It is a time of peace with meals together in a place surrounded by walls of my own making, with stories of my past to enrapture my children so they know of the world around and that which is wicked far beyond our lands.

The sky rumbles as though a storm approaches, but my children know better than to fear the sounds of thunder and lightning. Or the hard rains and hail which pours deafeningly down upon the roof of this fortified home.

Together we watch and laugh and hold each other, my children and I. For together we are warm, safe and dry.

But something else sounds my children do not hear. A call which I find familiar. A sound more terrifying than death or a raider or even a God full of rage.

The sound which brings tears to my eyes even when I hold my most beautiful children in my arms. I grip them tighter and weep between their smiles as a bird calls from somewhere outside.

I wake from my dream, in bed and alone, with only a fire across from me. The calling of the morning birds wake me from a most wonderful slumber, I drink as I weep when I wake.

Alone I can only find strength in the bottle, the sounds of the city outside. And here I am told how lucky I am to live in such a place without ties, ties that will never become.

So it is I live in the dream of the day. To what I told all would be envious.

To what I would sacrifice all for but a moment to feel those children in my arms and know the smell of their hair.

Another drink or two will pass my lips, the strength to leave bed and the door. Enough strength for the next hour or two to pretend that this city is truly all I desire.

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