![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedarksiren2I was 16 or 17 years old, sleeping in my room of white linen and cool breezes that tasted of salt and sea. I remember hearing a sea-gull outside my window, and as I woke to the breezes gently blowing across my cheeks, I could see the gull hovering just outside my window.
I stretched my arms above my head, and just as I went to rise from my bed my father came storming into my room, upset and carrying on at length in proper Italian. I sat up and very still in my bed, the glare between the sun and the stark white walls blinded me a little. I held up my hand to block the light from my still-sleepy eyes and got tangled in my long dark mane of hair - it was my hair from years ago, when I was hidden, protecting myself. My real-life logic told me to run my fingers through the hair - it was cherry-black, and naturally so. IRL my hair, when it was that long, was pitch black.
I considered this before I realized that my Italian father (who did not resemble my real father in any sense at all) was yelling at me to get out of my bed. I had a hard time understanding him at first - I'm not really Italian, and logically (as though in waking), I know this. But then I recalled I was dreaming, and that I always like to see what happens next, and I understood him clearly.
He wanted to know why I hadn't risen yet, why I was still in bed when I should be helping my mother prepare breakfast for the family. I was up to something, and he wanted to check my sheets.
I didn't think much of it, I mean, I was only 16 or 17, and the room was white and filled with an air of purity. So I rose to my feet, my white gown falling behind me as I stood from my bed.
His hands grasped his head in anguish, his face cringing as though he were horrified. I was scared then, and raised my hand slightly to touch him, if only to put his mind at ease. But then something told me I could not, so I let my hand fall and turned to face my bed.
My sheets were blood-stained, as was my gown.
Before my father could reach his utmost rage, I woke up. It was 7:13 A.M., 17 minutes before the coolest and most strange alarm could wake me. I rolled over, a little closer to a warm, cozy body, and slept without dreaming anymore.
***
When I decided to get up, after the strangeness of the warm-body's alarm, and his arm reaching across my body with a slight moan of disdain for the earliness of the morning, I went out the door to find Helen feeling as chatty as she ever has been.
A red tent had been erected, and the dream had simply warned me to take care of those wars before they got out of hand and embarrassed me in my surroundings.
The wars are now in full-effect.
I am not comfortable with my present position in this battlefield, for I am the product of death and expulsion.
but you really don't want me to go into the gory details of my wounds now, do you?
I stretched my arms above my head, and just as I went to rise from my bed my father came storming into my room, upset and carrying on at length in proper Italian. I sat up and very still in my bed, the glare between the sun and the stark white walls blinded me a little. I held up my hand to block the light from my still-sleepy eyes and got tangled in my long dark mane of hair - it was my hair from years ago, when I was hidden, protecting myself. My real-life logic told me to run my fingers through the hair - it was cherry-black, and naturally so. IRL my hair, when it was that long, was pitch black.
I considered this before I realized that my Italian father (who did not resemble my real father in any sense at all) was yelling at me to get out of my bed. I had a hard time understanding him at first - I'm not really Italian, and logically (as though in waking), I know this. But then I recalled I was dreaming, and that I always like to see what happens next, and I understood him clearly.
He wanted to know why I hadn't risen yet, why I was still in bed when I should be helping my mother prepare breakfast for the family. I was up to something, and he wanted to check my sheets.
I didn't think much of it, I mean, I was only 16 or 17, and the room was white and filled with an air of purity. So I rose to my feet, my white gown falling behind me as I stood from my bed.
His hands grasped his head in anguish, his face cringing as though he were horrified. I was scared then, and raised my hand slightly to touch him, if only to put his mind at ease. But then something told me I could not, so I let my hand fall and turned to face my bed.
My sheets were blood-stained, as was my gown.
Before my father could reach his utmost rage, I woke up. It was 7:13 A.M., 17 minutes before the coolest and most strange alarm could wake me. I rolled over, a little closer to a warm, cozy body, and slept without dreaming anymore.
***
When I decided to get up, after the strangeness of the warm-body's alarm, and his arm reaching across my body with a slight moan of disdain for the earliness of the morning, I went out the door to find Helen feeling as chatty as she ever has been.
A red tent had been erected, and the dream had simply warned me to take care of those wars before they got out of hand and embarrassed me in my surroundings.
The wars are now in full-effect.
I am not comfortable with my present position in this battlefield, for I am the product of death and expulsion.
but you really don't want me to go into the gory details of my wounds now, do you?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Woah
Date: 2002-11-18 12:52 pm (UTC)Re: Woah
Date: 2002-11-18 09:51 pm (UTC)I believe
*nods*
Too bad he's all dead and shtuff. Too cold to play. ~8/