I dream of him.
I wake weeping, still tasting with numb
(anise)
horror his lips on mine. My lover lies next to me in crushed velvet darkness, smiling in his sleep. But he is not my dream-lover. I only wish he were.
I lie frozen, the fluttering of raven feathers still passing before blind eyes. Dream is such an innocent word. Too innocent, but I cannot in truth label my dream as nightmare. I am terrified, trapped, not in control of my limbs. But it is not nightmare. How could it be? The ice only sets in on waking. Asleep, I am the seductress, taunting him, my gloved hands greedy, my tongue flicking against salty skin. I smile at his submission, the dipping of his eyelashes as I take him.
But at the same time I am screaming. His hair is blond! Not brown! My mind cries softly, it is agony. I don't want what I can't have. I don't want to clutch strands of fire-painted gold between my fingers. I don't want to touch him at all.
I want my lover. My gentle brown-haired lover, who touches me with reverence and awe. With love.
The other, my dream-lover, does not touch me unless I allow it. When I do, he is also gentle, cerulean eyes
(bewitched)
glazed. His mouth is soft, and I know that it is not really him. He should be a rough, uncaring lover. Proud, cruel, haughty. But I only laugh lightheartedly and scrape him with sharp teeth. He groans, but does not retaliate. The purple-black veil over his mind forbids it. I wonder if he is screaming too.
And then I am overcome with unbearable grief. This should not be; for all his sins he is innocent, a little boy lost. How many times did I hold him as a child, wipe blood off skinned knees, kiss away angry tears? I've always loved children. I never had any of my own, but that didn't seem so important. There were so many abandoned ones to care for.
That's the worst, really. Yet another layer of filth sticking to the inside of my mind.
I wonder if I am insane. If not, I wonder how long it will be before I am. Not long, I fear.

I dream of him.
I used to wonder why. I used to wake in confusion, disturbed and disgusted, but not terrified. Not feeling my sanity slip between my fingers.
My stomach churns quietly. I dash for the bathroom, demure nightgown flapping behind me. Acid and bile scorch my throat and I choke. Such a strange morning ritual, like coffee and toast but horribly backwards. I've become used to it, almost, in the last few weeks.
I hear my husband slide out of bed and follow. He strokes my hair
(soon now very soon now and you will be broken too my love)
lovingly, murmuring, asking me if I want water, asking me if I ate something bad.
"It will pass," I lie. He rubs my shoulders and continues
(you will surely turn away)
murmuring to me with his comforting voice. If only I could be comforted.
My body strains, and I urge it on, knowing that the tumor growing inside me might be brought up too if I just tried hard enough. It doesn't seem to be
(dead yet)
working.

No, my dream is not a nightmare. Nightmare begins when I wake. After all, I've always loved children.