A Library of Dreams
Complete Books 

Charlotte was silent for a moment.“What do you dream of?”

“It does not matter, so long as it is not of this reality.”

“It does matter. What am I to dream of when I cannot exist anymore? When the ghosts get too loud for me to bear?”

“Anything, everything. Places, maybe. The past. One of the possibilities that was ripped from you long ago.”

“But what is it that you see? Do you dream of Paris and Cairo, like the Duke? Your father and mother? Dogs shuffling cards and talking politics? The moon? …Elizabeth?”

  Thomas did not immediately speak or even react, he just continued to stare into the distance. She was sure he would have tensed at the name. Provided her some reaction to assure her of how he felt towards the woman he had spent nights with, but nothing sparked into his face.

“I used to dream of now. Sitting there, under that tree,” hand raised, he pointed. “I used to dream of sitting here in this exact moment. You and Violet dreamed of much more. Now?” He looked to the girl, pale under the moonlight with eyes staring back at him from under her lashes. Her skin sparkled and her lips blushed heavily. “Now… I dream of hands tingling under the surface of water, splayed on my back, staring up at the evening sky, moon high on the horizon. I dream of goddesses, pulling me under the water, losing consciousness, then being revived once more. Over and over and over.”

“That does not sound like a dream. It sounds like a nightmare.”

“Yes, but the goddess…” Charlotte felt Thomas tense at this. His breath hitched in his throat for a moment. He swallowed, hard. The point in his neck sank deeply. He was thinking of the woman, Charlotte could tell. She could not see his face anymore. She looked down at the stone step underneath them.

“What is she like?”

Thomas sat, bewildered, staring at Charlotte, unsure if he should answer the question at all, but he knew she would pester him if he did not. Charlotte always had a way of getting the answers she wanted. “Well… I suppose…” He ran is hands through his chaotic hair and looked to the moon. He could not stare at Charlotte as he did this. “I suppose, she is feral. Rotted and ecstatic and radiant. There are no metaphors, for they lull in comparison. I could say she is a fallen star, lost and scared, searching for the sky once more, but one star, or even an entire universe cannot capture the divination of her. I could say she is annihilation and destruction, riding into a town, wiping out entire belief systems, taking everything with her as she leaves, but death is too easy, too simple. There is some living part that still exists, wrapping at my throat. Galatea, perhaps. The statue carved in the likeness of Aphrodite herself, worshipped so heavily, it came to life. I, Pygmalion. But, no. That implies she was made by my hand, each carving a perfection of my desire. But I cannot sculpt and perfection is a grotesque classification. How am I to define perfection if I cannot begin to understand what it is that I see? I have always been the pitiful observer.”

All color had drained from his face. His hands, sat over his knees, relaxed. Any pain, any trepidation that had existed in him was gone. He felt like he was floating in the midnight air. The sinner to confession.