A Golden Dream
It started out not unlike other dreams; I could not hearken back to the start, yet already floating between one world and the next, the realization dawned upon me that I was dreaming. It possessed a grainy, vintage, feeling about it, a little like those old photographs you are likely to come across in a stereotypical, dusty, aged box in the attic.
The mist swirled and twisted low on the ground, as if it has a mind of its own, a separate, sentient, entity and creating mischief among the late evening shoppers; softly caressing, whispering the slyest of secrets to the quietest of listeners.
A dirty, cobbled path came into being, like an artist completing a painting, and thrust out of the wary state of uncertainty, the world came into some sort of focus. A little like a painting I’d once seen in a book, perhaps, that may have been the inspiration behind this dream. Boots clicking urgently against the greyish pathway, streets twisting and turning deceptively, I rushed past the brightly lit stores of this unknown place. Unaware of the reason behind my burning desire to – what was it? – run, or seek someone, I grew cognizant of a shelter; a safe place where I knew would be awarded protection without argument.
The mist was now wrapping itself around my ankles, feline yet serpentine in its vehemence and fervor. It was so cold; I almost began to burn up. My…corset was too tight, too itchy, and this troublesome petticoat kept brushing my things roughly. I burned in the ardency of my own trepidation; eyes darting back and forth, examining all those suspicious faces.
Every man was a hunter, a monster in disguise. Every woman a…a witch, ready to cast her wicked spell, and every child a wooden puppet concealed by humanoid cheerfulness.
The paranoia was close to snuffing out my labored breath, when I discovered the place which almost offered me profound relief; almost, but not quite. There stood a pub, dimly lit and slightly worn down by the weather, but appeared to be a respectable place, for respectable people, catering to the hungers of the respectable kind. I could hear laughter muffled by the thick glass and wood, warm lighting that seemed to welcome people from the cold. Of course, I never made it to safety.
A hand came to rest upon my shoulder, the warmth seeping through my clothes, and the glove that covered it. I could feel the contrast between the searing cold and the hand, at odds with each other.
“Miss DuPont you never did answer my questions,” came the velvety purr of my predator, thriving in my pathetically obvious state of fear. Disregarding every nerve in my body, that beckoned me to flee; I turned to around to face him properly. This was another mistake on my part. Eyes of molten gold, skin gleaming oddly with the blessing of Helios, stood the most beautiful man I had ever seen. “Beautiful,” was a word to colourless, too mortal, in describing the damnation that confronted me. The mist grew thicker as I stood unable to answer yet again, only gaping at this magnificent creature, eschewing nature for its unfairness. How could nature create something so alluring?
Before I could make sense of my frenzied, chaotic mind, all thoughts deserted me as he lifted his hand.
His slender fingers grazed my throat, before coming to rest where my heart beat the strongest, lightly pressing. A knowing grin crossed his face, and if I thought he was beautiful before, I had to rethink my position.
I could physically feel myself drawing closer, mesmerized at such peculiar orbs of gold. I could only commit pathetic fallacy to my descriptions; they soldered like the earth’s magma, a gleaming fountain of life promising eternal pleasure. Nothing else existed apart from the gold in those eyes, not even my reflection that had disappeared completely.
Then, like the leisurely stretching of a cunning cat, the dream slowly came to an end. I woke up to a ray of sun beaming through the crack in the curtains. It fell on this antique vase I’d found at a thrift store. With a startling realization, I blinked at the eyes carved into it.
