Prompt: Dreams - March

Dreaming of Warmth

Prompt: Dreams

In the night, she dreams of him, still, and tries so very hard to remember.  The memories slip through her fingers like water, head and heart aching.

He had blue eyes--- no; green, like the glass of bottles they sometimes found on the beach.   She remembers the taste of salt, of ocean, of the wind blowing her hair back, imagining the sky opening its arms high above her.  Sometimes, she can see the dark outline of his silhouette against the glorious sunsets, where fire meets water, where sky meets horizon, where the dying rays of sunlight turn his skin gold.

She dreams of his hands, his touch, the way his eyes burn when he smiles.  She likes how different he is from her--- how he is everything she is not, that glowing, shining presence so bright and peaceful.  Balanced and perfectly calm, like the sun that touches the water, like the waves washing over the sand.

She tries so very hard to remember---and she's whispering, voice hoarse, over and over again--

"Oh God, someone please, shut her up---"

And she's awake when she doesn't want to be.

His name is the only thing she says, now, over and over again, like the ocean tide pulling in, and out.

Pulled back to reality, she stares around the grey, concrete room.  Outside the only window, the air is as cold as ice, unforgiving white in every direction, blank and frozen.  It's always winter here, but she dreams of long-forgotten summer, of clear blue skies, of the salt wind and ocean and of the boy with green eyes, skin turned gold.

The doctors say they'll help her remember the warmth, that long ago, forgotten warmth.  That's why she's here, so she can remember.  She shivers and presses her cold hands together, as the other patients stare at the walls, some relieved that she's finally quiet again.

Her body is cold, ice shards in her heart.  And yet, somehow, she knows a little bit of what summer feels like in a land perpetually frozen.  They say there’s something wrong with her, that remembering, that whispering, that unbearable aching.  That's why they took her here, to this cold, grey room. Like everyone else here, she’s just trying to find something that might make her whole again, something that she’s missing.

Her dreams fill her with longing, showing brief fleeting moments that nudge her ever closer, ever farther to remembering.  She loves her dreams, even if she can't stop saying his name, even if she feels sad, even if she always wakes up crying.

Despite that, it's the only time when she's not shivering, the only time when the sun is on her face.

She holds his hand, that warm, strong hand, and wishes for the day when she will never have to wake up.