I had a dream, once. Some will call it a nightmare, and nothing more than a nightmare, but I only saw reality that night.
I was lost in the hum of a crowd of dusty
and desperate--
weary travelers, whose faces I couldn't identify in the gloom of the air.
There was a tug at my hand. I looked down, and saw a thin red thread around my pinky. It was twisted around about twice, and I felt the tiny bump of the knot against my skin.
I followed that thread. And then I realized that every traveler had one on their pinkies too. Among the hundreds of brown and black and gray cloaks, the thin lines of red criss-crossed and disappeared
then appeared again.
It seemed the threads were all leading to the same place from where I was standing. We were all so far from out destinations, so much that my
our
threads seemed to all go in the same direction.
But we got closer--and I even closer--and all the traveler's threads, thin and red
like a spider's silk dyed with blood--
tangled themselves sadistically in a huge, unfixable knot, holding every figure in place.
Travelers pulled
yanked
bit their threads, but they were unbreakable. Seeing this, one traveler reached under his cloak and pulled something out--a knife--and slashed at the person next to him.
It took but a moment, and then the dark red welled up in my vision and pooled over the sides of my mind, and suddenly it seemed everyone held a blade in their hand.
I reached under my cape as well, hoping
despairing
for a grip or handle or a sharpness of some sort;
and found what I wanted
needed.
And even though blood was in my eyes and my tears were stained red,
I raised the weapon above my head and brought it down--
and that was when I woke up, not shaking or sweating, surprisingly, or
shivering.
But it was strange. I placed my hand down on my lap, felt a sting--
footsteps
--a prick--
closer
there was a dead rose on my covers.
I screamed, and once again
I drowned, swallowed by gray fog
and the hum of weary travelers.
