Demon Stories: Vol. 2

Beau: To Dream of Her, 1947, England

Beau

To Dream of Her

1947, England

What do demons dream about? I imagine it is the same as other people. They must see people they've met. I only see those I've met.

Last night, it was a garden. There was the most lovely singing. I'd heard it before. A sad song.

So long I wandered, the voice lilting and waning. Soft, like the waves of her hair. Through tall hedges, over pink rose bushes and around zoo animals made of garden greens. The voice never got any louder, just sweeter. My eyes closed eventually, yet still able to see all the flowers. Gardenias dripping of dewing rain. Soft orange roses which when spotted give me a lift of breath, for I'd thought I'd found her at last. Same for orange trees, the fresh fruit taunting me in color.

But gently, at last, rounding a last hedge, there she was. Down below me, in an amphitheater such as olden times in Rome, seats all around her made of garden. She was dressed for modern times, in a flowing spring dress patterned of roses which matched the garden. In her hand was a red rose, sparkling with the rain as was everything else. She was singing to it, as if it were a child.

Holding onto the hedge, for she'd given me a startle, seeing her true red hair at last, I took her in. Her T-strapped white shoes. The white pearls she wore. The dress's gentle string-like bow at her neck. Her willowy wrists. Finally, the hand which held the rose. The blush on her fingernails.

How I longed to be the rose, gently held by her hand as if a dear thing.

If I had the will, I would acknowledge this was a dream. I could be child-like, make her do what I want. But that wouldn't be true to her. She'd never do what I want. I could conjure up a table for tea. The rose could go in a glass between us. We could smile at each other, take tea together. We could lean in for a kiss, much longed for.

But this wouldn't be her. More true, would be a scowl for interfering with her song, as if she were a bird. Large crimson wings would come out of her, she'd brush me away and throw the rose at me, my only souvenir of her. She'd fly away and I'd follow.

Perhaps just to interact. To see her face react to me, anything. Was it enough? Would any of it ever be enough? To touch the one who hates you, who loathes the sight of you? To feel that hurt, the pain of her touch in my heart always. Even felt in a dream. The truth of her, this shameful longing.

I can't dream of her even to see her for myself without remembering this selfish pain.

Still, sometimes there are hopeful dreams. We're flying, over an abyss of sea. She smiles at me, and I can't bear to look, because its not her. She'd never do that, simply conjured up out of my own longing.

So I'll bear to look at her singing to that rose. I'll weep eventually, knowing this self-same pain. I'll wake, tears scattered on the bed and hear the rain outside, knowing it is the same which comes down here.

When I wake again, I know I'll be consumed about her. It will be a solemn day. Wondering what she dreams about. Does she see me? What does she do?

For now, I can watch her. This one I've made in my head, the one I think about all day. Here she is perfect, too perfect to be real. It is not the one I want, and yet.

Oh, and yet.

Across the way, my heart jumps as I see it. He is here, as well. He's always somewhere in the garden, traveling to me and I am sad to see it always. He's crawled a ways, his old clothes torn in places. He is as I've seen him last, standing about rose bushes. Long, straight black hair. A white doublet with pants at the knees, white stockings and pointed boots. He is silently staring at me through those same blue eyes, shocked and out of breath. He has found me at last. He has been searching for too long. He has found me in a dream.

I can not stay. I can not observe. Sadly, I see her for the last time. She's oblivious to us, as in life. Singing like a bird, a small sparrow almost. She lifts the rose and as she twirls, I turn away, never to see her face.