Blue Heaven

Part 4

RIP Rosemary Charlotte Holcroft (not in 1982)

4 February 1982

Thursday 7:45am

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You awoke to kisses on your neck. You shifted and moaned.

You'd been dreaming. A sunny field full of sheep. It felt surreal, the grass too bright a green, an intense blue sky. The sheep looked fluffier and puffier than they ought to be, like clouds. And then, they began to drift up, floating upward, their fat stumpy legs hanging off of them.

Then baby ducklings, yellow and in a row. They waddled to a nearby pond, quacking. It looked fake, a small circular pond of water, lily pads too green. It looked like a storybook.

"Paul..." You murmured, recognizing the sensation before you remembered where you were.

You heard a low giggling. You felt his lip curl up, disrupting the kisses.

"There's my good girl." He purred, smugly and warmly. "Knows who her man is, even whilst asleep."

You rubbed your eyes, still waking. You were not fully up, but a part of you knew to be disgruntled by this characteristic smugness.

"Paul..."

You felt another kiss on your neck, reciprocation. This one was longer (and wetter). A warm heated dampness on your skin.

"Ah, Paul..."

A part of you was attempting to slip back into sleep. It wasn't so late, was it? You didn't hear the baby crying, half aware there was a baby now.

He was rousing you, not just being sweet. Attempting to wake you properly with his affections.

"You sometimes moan my name in your sleep." Paul said, prideful. "More so during your pregnancy. It's good, love."

You grumbled. Your eyes were shut, but you reached out your hand, finding and pushing against his face. Not violently, but enough to bother him. His face flesh was soft, and squished beneath your touch.

"You rotten boy." You seethed.

He shook off your hand, without much difficulty. You stubbornly remained half asleep, not much strength keeping it there.

Paul huffed in offence.

"Hoy, I'm being nice to you." He said.

Your eyes were shut. You drifted back off, though could inexplicably sense his gaze, quite close too.

He spoke, drifting you back again. His soft sounding voice cut through the haze.

"Do you know what day it is?" He said.

You hummed.

"What day is it, Pussycat?" You said.

He giggled, then his lips were back on your neck.

"Mmm," He said. "You should know. February..."

You hummed. It was coming back to you, where you were, what day it was.

"Hm, yes." You murmured. "I know. I think I do."

Paul giggled.

"How old are you turning now?" He teased.

You were slow on the response. You turned your head, rolling over. You were slow to fully rouse.