Poisoned Dreams

Drilling.

Muffled machinery.

A musical melody mourning the mundane world left to die. The crane broke to pieces, glittering into a breaking skyscape. A balanced beam of metal plummeted, screeching its cry of distress and despair. Shattering, splintered into dust particles, separated by eternity.

Drilling.

Beating drums rocketed eardrums through headphones. Bouncing in beat to the hearts fluttering. The metal frame toppled. A house of cards folding. Backdropping honks of raucous traffic. Shouts of anger and frustration. It tumbles down.

Piles of material and tools avalanched, breaking across the zone, engulfing oblivious workers. Buried beneath boundless rubble. They, too, glittered as they faded into the abstract obscurity.

Drilling.

Dream.

Danger and delirium disguised.

Bells.

The clocks echoed, signaling shifts. The headphones came off.

Piano.

Missed keys and off-tune notes. A horrible tragedy wrought by unknowing fingers. The sleek black piano played pitifully, crying for freedom. Plants and flora shuddered, shriveling in revulsion. The wallpaper furled.

Mother's voice out keyed by louder pings of plucked string. The shrill outcries blasted away the walls. Familiar sky outlined distress—brilliant light receding through the gaps.

Father's figure stood on each black key before being snuffing out by hasty fingers. Apparitions of perfection and expectation. Slamming his hands on the keys. Laughing faces washed away through rage and bitterness.

Copies appeared, surrounding his stage of reflected floor and abyssal surroundings. The chords cut. Each figure turned, proceeding to flee the grieving tune.

Struggling to forget. To cut away the hurt. Separate the abyss. Left with a broken shell unable to create. Floundering.

The instrument rebelled. Refusing to sing so mournfully. Particles drifted away—desperate playing. Little remained until the final two notes waved a sorrowful goodbye, twirling a duet into the obscured ether.

Bellavarn folded himself, huddling in the darkness. Sky too scary to face. The floor reflecting his hideous image.

"Melody."

Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to cry. Nothing to hurt but himself.

Bellavarn sat in a corner, under the highway. Dismal. Rejection and inability. Passive and allowing. Relapse.

"Veronica."

Surrounded by noise. Surrounded by trash. Surrounded by broken wishes. Sobering realization.

Two voices.

"Gone."

Synchronized. The two met. Mingled without longer words. Inherent understanding.

Worlds apart, they met at the eternal divide. Eclipse. Nothing alike at all. Bellavarn's clean clothes, shaved face, shiny golden hair, and unblemished porcelain skin faced off against rags and poverty. Scruffy beard. Grime. Disgusting and mangey mop. Youth hid beneath battered exterior.

The mirror cracked from a punch. Bellavarn pivoted. Seeing his other reflection. Punch. Blood dribbled down previously unmarred flesh.

Swiveling.

Another punch. Symmetrical scars.

Bellavarn faced the last reflection but held his hand.

"Melody."

She stood as his reflection, smiling kindly. Exactly how he remembered her.

"Melody..."

Bellavarn stumbled forward. The mirror blocking his touch. Melody shimmered.

Torn clothes. Bloody. Bruised and Battered. Petrified. Her scream broke the glass outward, scarring Bellavarn's skin.

Running away, he encountered another mirror—a whimper.

"Melody."

Huddled in warm sheets. A fire backlighting her. Casting flickering shadows. Her glare of indifference and apathy stung more than the glass buried in his flesh. He reached out.

Her feet backtracked, escaping.

Staggering forward. Pushing her back. The heat rose. Bellavarn stopped.

"Please..."

Melody smirked, taking the final step into the fire.

"NO!"

Bellavarn sprinted into the roaring flames. Grabbing Melody. Holding her, he clung to her as his body melted. Echoing wails of unrendered agony and despair. The scorched piece of paper clutched to his chest burnt a hole straight through.

He howled his lament. Shrieking as his lifeforce flickered.

Curled in a ball on the ground. He wheezed through empty lungs.

"It hurts."

A corpse he laid.

=

"I found this in his jacket."

"This is..."

"It fell out when I cut it open."

Henry accepted the burnt paper gently. Kerv's expression told him what he would find.

The journal paper held a portrait. A once beautiful drawing of a girl. A maid wearing a content smile. A hole burned through the left corner. Edges blacked—the parchment glowing glumly of wear and tear.

"This has been in his pocket the entire time?"

Kerv's silence shared Henry's suspicion.

"I don't know what to do with it."

Herny stared at the paper.

"I don't either."

"Melody..."

Bellavarn's strained voice reached them. Kerv was too quiet.

Henry talked instead.

"How do we heal him?"

"The antidote."

"I mean his heart."

"..."

Kerv held his fist, clenching.

"We can't."

"Should we let him keep this? Or burn it? Finish the job and make it disappear..."

Kerv escaped his seat, throwing his arms.

"That won't fix anything."

"Then..."

"Give it back."

"Why?"

"What else can we do?"

"..."

No clues.

"Let him throw it away himself."

"We can give him time."

Kerv scoffed, an ugly scowl crossing his normally carefree face.

"I'd like to punch whoever said time heals all wounds. It doesn't heal. The wounds just scab over, being picked at until the day we die. We run our fingers along the scars thinking they are healed, only for them to reopen. Always reopening. Always finding a way to bleed."

"You didn't fail, Kerv. You saved him."

Henry soothed. Kerv exploded.

"Don't patronize me! You know I always fail when it matters."

Henry chose silence.

It kept for a minute.

Then two.

Then three.

"Leave the picture."

Those were the words Kerv used to stomp out.

Henry watched him go, giving Kerv time. He might be right that time didn't heal wounds. Not completely. But time did serve to give reprieve. The moments in-between. The moment to live for.

Tucking the paper carefully in Bellavarn's pants pocket, Henry took Kerv's seat. Crossing his legs and interlocking his fingers.

Waiting.

The time would come.

=

"That barbarous savage! He dared! In my own home, no less? He had no right! No right, I say!"

April hid. A child again. Scared to crawl out.

"If I were here, I would have turned him around. This is our house, after all."

"Please... You couldn't have gotten past a single one of his knights, Jeffrey."

There was no response—just the click of a woman's tongue.

"You wouldn't have helped. But now that he is gone, we can finally use this as an excuse to change sides. There are rumors Duke Astor will welcome anyone into his fold. Doubly so if they are the Sallows allies."

"But we've been an ally of the Sallows for two generations! My grandfather was close friends with Belial Sallow. We can't just abandon generations of work."

A resounding slap. April winced, ducking further into hiding.

"Do you understand what he did to me? The embarrassment? The depravity? No! I will not stand for it. You will make contact with the Astor household on the morrow. I believe he will be interested in the bargaining chip we hold."

"She is our daughter! You will not force her into your plots."

"You say that as if you haven't also kept her homebound for years."

"It is for her protection!"

"From the sun, yes, of course. She already has a few blemishes; more won't hurt if she can continue to sway the Sallow boy."

"You must stop this. Using me, my family... I can't stand by while you use our daughter to raise our standing. What of her wishes? Of her aspirations and dreams?"

"That is all she has. Dreams. Her fragile little books. Even her embroidery is paltry. It's taken half a decade for her to stop poking herself..."

"She is a child!'

"She is 19! Old enough to be wed. No skills. Just fanciful fiction."

"You expect too much."

"And you don't expect enough. Society is brutal. She needs to learn now or else-"

April closed her door. Letting the shouts fade.

She knew...

She knew she dreamed too much. Of being a princess. Of being an action hero. Creating wondrous miracles of magic, ushering in a new age.

As a little girl, her mother read her a book of a white knight riding in on a brilliant stallion, rescuing a princess from an evil wizard. Mother was so fascinated by the white knight.

"Find yourself a White Knight, April. Make yourself the damsel if need be. Have him save you and capture his heart. IT is your ticket to freedom."

"What about the wizard, momma? Didn't he want to marry the princess?"

"Hush, the evil wizard never wins. He dies on the Knights sword. Be sure to choose the right side in the future. Lest the evil wizard drags you down with him."

April hustled over to her bedside. A familiar children's book hiding under the pillow.

"Why is he evil, Momma? What did he do? Didn't he just want to be loved?"

Turning the pages, she saw illustrations where the white knight fought the wicked wizard's evil underlings. They died in droves, defending their master. To the last, they fought. Protecting.

The Knight destroyed the map room, filled with plans and outlines, locked in perilous battle with the evil wizard.

The wizard died pitifully. All his work ruined. His friends dead. His legacy forgotten.

And the Knight freed the princess from her perch atop the tallest tower. Not a jail cell. Not a prison or pillory. Not a monster-infested pit.

No.

She sat on the softest looking bed, peering out a window. The land rolled out before her. Majestic and beautiful. Honored with the gift of perspective, to look past the walls that should have confined her.

April closed the book. Setting it down on her mundane mattress, she glimpsed out a foggy window. The night sky reflected blue hues onto her frail skin. Her tangled hair resting over nightly garments. The stars invisible past the colored glass; they still shone in her emerald eyes.

Tomorrow.

The day things changed. The day the evil wizard won, falling in love with a princess.

"Will he like it?"

She held a folded handkerchief in her lap. Laying down, she held it to her chest, an embodiment of hard work. The tutor guided her, but no more. This was her own design. Something she created for herself. Not a dream.

"It is not a dream."

Closing her eyes, she could see it. Bellavarn's smiling face as he saw her design.

Sleep didn't take her, having napped earlier. Instead, other, darker thoughts took hold of her.

"I believe he will be interested in the bargaining chip we hold."

"She is our daughter! You will not force her into your plots."

April recalled.

They want to use me. Bellavarn.

They were going to switch sides. Betray the Sallows.

What do I do? I like you...

All the mini-Aprils sat around the table. Silently looking into each other's eyes. Searching for answers. A way to set things right.

Can I hope? Dare to dream? I am not a princess. Just a lowly baron's daughter.

One of the mini-Aprils walked over to a lever. Pulling it, the tears started to flow. They passed around tissues.

If I asked... Would you... Would you...

April sniffed. Her voice cracking.

"Would you steal me away?"

=

In the recess of a quiet enclosure overcast by cloudy night, a report was issued.

"The others are dead, boss. Just like you planned."

"..."

"Do we continue with the next step?"

"..."

"Should I contact our accomplice or approach our new employer first?"

"..."

"I'll start right away, then."

"..."

A falcon's cry broke.

A mouse dropped its breadcrumb. Shivering in the darkness. Hiding.