I do not dream

Dark brown eyes above pale cheeks and dark bruises that will not fade. Fingernails obsessively picking at sleeve cuffs, hair tied up in a bun with a black ribbon. Teeth gnawing on bottom lips without thought.

Sounds echoing through the woods, leaves crunching underfoot, a shape moving just out of sight.

She dips her toes into the water of the stream, holding the skirt of her white sundress up slightly. Bram stands as far away as possible, regarding the water with the kind of distain a cat might.

The shape moves forward, a deer with antlers draped in vines that do not grow here.

He skims a stone across the stream, watching her step aside, head thrown back in laughter, a pretty mess of bruised eyes, pale cheeks and bitten lips.

The deer’s mouth hinges open, a piercing shriek erupts. Birds take off and she hunches over, blood staining the palm of her hand.

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Gun smoke and cigars and perhaps a hint of whiskey, that was Adone to her. A man in a sharp suit with a shirt stained in blood.

The sharp tap of shoes on the ground, a dry, husky voice followed by a gunshot and then silence.

Giggles and sunshine and just a little hint of madness, that was Florence to her. A little girl in a nightgown with fingernails that bled.

Playful humming, mocking smiles, blood splattered dresses, switchblades and the deep voice of a stuffed rabbit.

An eternally smirking face, empty eye sockets and old, ratty clothes. That was Bram to her. A ghost stuck between being a child and an adult.

A cackling laugh that will not stop, blood running like tears, blackberries stolen without a care, mimed actions of affection.

Oh, what strange things her ghosts were.

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Sharp cheek bones and pointy elbows and lips slightly stained from blackberry juice, that was what she was made of.

Bram brings her blackberries, a mocking smile on his face. She asks if he stole them. He laughs and tells her not to worry about that, miming the act of kissing her on the forehead.

She goes to the cinema and watches any horror movie that’s showing, sitting alone with a bored expression. Her ghosts are far more entertaining.

It’s hard to be scared when your life’s a horror film, a continuing loop of encounters with that that isn’t safe for good little girls.

Brambles catch her black leggings and catch at her hands, scratches form and she remembers that good little girls aren’t the type to wandering through abandoned gardens.

Sugar, spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of. Except she isn’t sweet or spicy, perhaps she is sour, perhaps she is sharp, perhaps she just a little bit tart.

Everything nice? Ha. The people rotting like trash in various warehouses would most definitely say that she was not ‘everything nice’. Everything twisted, maybe.

She isn’t a good girl. She’s a very bad girl.

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There was beauty in her, people would say, talking in hushed voices, sneaking glances from the corner of their eyes at the girl with bright orange hair and obsidian eyes. If she spent time in the sun and put on enough weight to no longer be considered a skeleton, she could have the world.

It always made her laugh.

No matter how long she spent in the sun, her skin never darkened. No matter how much she ate, she remained the same.

A pale shadow lurking where she couldn’t be seen, just out of the corner of your eye, forever half listening to the words of the dead.

Once, when she was 14, her hair had been compared to fire and her eyes to coal.

It made sense. Her hair was the only bright thing about her, with her dark eyes and dark clothes and twisted nature, and her eyes were cold, like coals were unless they were burned.

Perhaps, just like coal, her eyes would one day be turned to ash and close forever, killing the fire.

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