Somnambulistic Thorns

Reads: 56  | Likes: 1  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 7

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Cover image: pixabay.com

Submitted: June 11, 2019

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 11, 2019

A A A

A A A


Somnambulistic Thorns

She is quite an accomplished somnambulist. She creeps out of her bedroom, steps silently, stealthily down the stairs and pulls on her cloak of black. Through all of this she stays asleep, her eyes closed and her breathing steady.

The locks are fiddly, difficult to disengage. Her fingers deftly move around; she has done this so many times that she can open the door blind-folded – or asleep. She pulls the door softly closed behind her, leaving it unlocked so that she can slip back inside undetected.

It is a summer night, but the hour is late and the sky is dark. With one hand she lifts up the hood of her cloak, while with the other she wraps the fabric around her. Bare feet on the grass, she knows exactly where to go, which direction to take. If she had not already known, the scent of the blooms would guide her.

It’s a heady aroma, the perfumed air that wreaths and rises around the rose garden. He’ll be there waiting. He always is on such nights as this. Her haunting lover, lost in life maybe, but very much present within her dreams.

Searching with her eyes closed she begins to get frantic. Was she wrong? Is he not there? Just as she begins to feel the stirring of despair, he reaches from behind a bush, whirls her towards him, then whirls her away. She’s smiling now, so happy in her sleep as together they spin around the bushes, heedless of the thorns.

In her sleep he has substance, he exists just as much as she does. And his love matches hers. A passion that will last forever, beyond the end of time, for there is no doubt that come her time, they will haunt together when the moon does shine and the roses bloom. Embracing for the time that they have been given together, she does not even flinch when the thorns dig deep in to her flesh, when the drops of blood begin to well up to the surface of her skin. She is firmly held in a spectral sleep that enfolds them together just like a thick fog. No prying eyes for their rendezvous.

As the sun begins to rise, and the blackness begins to fade, he begins to disipate too. She clings to him even though she can feel him slipping away. It will do no good to fight it, but still she does, her head tossing in distress, her eyes remaining closed.

Wait!” she says. “Don’t go!”

Those words have left her lips too late for, instead of his hand, she is grasping at thorns that dig deep, bring forth a soft cry. Tears weep their way from beneath her lids as she runs back through the dew-sprinkled grass. In to the house, up the stairs to climb in to her bed where she sleeps and dreams.

Come morning when it’s time to rise, she’ll see the scratches, feel the thorns. Her waking eyes find it hard to picture his face, but her body, her heart, still feel his embrace. Long sleeves for her dress and gloves for her hands, and the heady scent of roses for her perfume.


© Copyright 2019 hullabaloo22. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

More Flash Fiction Short Stories