(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

Love.
So soft. A shy girl, once, but with a fire in her breast. She abandoned
something to come with me, sacrificed everything to see me smile. And a
tender caress may have repaid her a thousand times, in her eyes. I tore her
from an old, soft life and planted her in this rough and dangerous
wandering, but she willingly follows. She was my burden.
But did I love her?
Wait….
This isn’t real!
This isn’t REAL!
A hundred accusing fingers, a thousand. TEN thousand! The dream spirals
out of control, the visions slipping into a black miasma that binds it all in a
valley of tears. Demons, shadows, and slaughter. So much blood. Rivers of
blood. Enough to wash the Styx crimson.
I feel my skin peeling, my flesh writhing as scars paint themselves to me. I do
the only thing I could do:
I scream.
But even nightmares have their small mercies, perhaps. The panic and terror
melts away into a flash of blue, a tinkling of soft bells. And a woman, a
familiar woman, giving me a glance with crystal blue eyes. Her silver hair and
azure tresses ripple in an unfelt wind.
Her eyes close, and she turns away from me quietly, those soft chimes
fading in the distance as the world grows dark again. Her back is turned to
me as she vanishes from sight. That single glance, so full of sorrow, so live
with anger, is the only thing she gives me. Cold as the winter storms and
smooth as frosted glass. The only thing she is willing to give.
And it all slips away.
And I rest.
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