Chapter One
Each and every night I had a ‘dream.’
And not a dream in the Martin Luther King sense, but a dream nonetheless.
I call it a dream, but in all honesty that’s because I had no other words to describe it.
In all reality it could have been a host of things: flash-backs, flash-forwards, glimpses of another life or perhaps it were a conversation with this ever elusive God I hear so much about. But that of course was absurd; it was much more likely to be a candlelit dinner with Lucifer than a date with God.
Well, whatever it was, this dream played out on a rigorous schedule. It was, dare I say it, the only stable and constant thing in my life.
Each and every night, without fail, the dream would visit me.
I call it a dream, but it was closer to a nightmare—no—it was a nightmare.
One . . . I felt I would never escape from.
Well, I suppose I should stop procrastinating and tell you about the dream, huh?
Forgive me for being so easily distracted, it’s something I’ve been plagued with since I was just a kid. My best friend used to call me a magpie, the second a shiny thing came into my sight—didn’t matter what it was as long as it was shiny—and I’d go galloping after it.
But I will do my best to stay on track . . . but I can’t make any promises, I am, after all, only human.
I would so much rather be a kitty.
Where was I?
Ahh, yes, my dream, the dream. . . .
Hopefully you will be able to decipher its meaning, I have spent night after night, day after day trying to understand the dream, to try and find its hidden meaning, but it eludes me, like a drag on a cigarette, it wafts and drifts and then . . . it’s gone.
It always began the same.
By now I knew every single detail by heart.
I sat at the edge of a calm lake; nothing mystical or magical about it save for the eerie, shimmering reflection it cast of me: my translucent, borderline vampiric skin captured the luminescence from the full moon hanging above; the moon was so close that it felt like I could extend my hand and touch it. It was the only thing that was paler than I.
I was quite the pale pallet normally, but as I sat by the lakes edge, my skin was drained of every last trace of colour, as if someone had affixed a porcelain mask to my face.
Then I saw the flash of green—no not just green but a brilliant emerald flash that speared through me and grabbed me by the throat, forcing my gaze to lock with the reflection—with my reflection.
But as I gazed at my reflection, and studied the chocolate brown locks of hair tumbling down its face, I felt a shiver of anticipation race through me—racing along my heartbeat.
With amplified force, my own emerald eyes narrowed on me.
Then it—my reflection—spoke.
It spoke, but my lips never uttered a single vowel.
But how could that be.
Then she began to shed a stream of tears that caused a faint ripple on the lake’s surface.
But not a single tear stained my face, you see I would know: I was wearing a heavy outlining of eyeliner, and mascara that gave my eyes a sort of kittenish brightness.
