His oneiric life became increasingly difficult to differentiate from his small reality. By small the narrator means the protagonist’s white collar job, his nonexistent love life, his lone existence, et cetera, et cetera.
Last night he dreamt he was she. She was spiraling down to the ground on a marigold on a bright beautiful day with silver oaks below her. The color of the day was unlike any she had seen. It was a concoction of all the rainbow colors and golden. Yeah it was golden. But it was beautifully painted; the canvas of the day was beautifully tinted by the goldenish hues. He woke up in the dead of night, flabbergasted and checked his privates and made a low humming voice. He went to sleep again.
This time she was at the ground, nearly naked, with her bosom free. Butterflies fleeted over her and the leaves of the silver oaks were golden green and were fluttering in the breeze that nearly drove the petals away, but she hung on tight to them.
This time around, the dreams weren’t sweet. The TV screen flickered, the fulgent silhouette on the wall flickered. He was barefoot. And came in a staid voice a low hum, a low tocsin. It chased him around haphazardly. At first he was unfazed, but suddenly he realized it was the Nar horn. The dreaded Nar horn and he didn’t even know what it meant, as a feeling of mortal dread engulfed him. He was deathly afraid of flipping the mortal coil.
It chased him around. It chased him around in din and in the dimly lit drawing room as he felt like it wanted to draw his blood. But he didn’t know why and apparently nor did the invisible tocsin. Suddenly, the dirge sounding siren halted.
Next thing he knew, the tocsin was ringing inside of him. His veins were varicose, eyes popping out, heart pounding at the speed of light. It blew him to pieces.
When she woke up on her petal bed she was missing a tooth, which apparently fell off like a piano key, in a morbidly cartoonish manner. The scene hadn’t changed; she still lay on the apotheosis of beauty and was herself a queen with a glazed visage. What was the perverse dream that took her over? There seemed no to be any sort of elision. She tried ‘?’, ‘and’, ‘&’, ‘therefore’, but no sign of elision.
His oneiric life had little difference from his regular life. He walked down the alley, the dim alley. Nothing happened, but once he reached home, he cut foot on a shard of broken glass; a remnant of yesterday. His teeth were fine but his foot was torn, cut, lanced for no reason.
The sun wasn’t yellow then, it was a golden phoenix (not a chicken). The trees were trees and the leaves that were green were now yellow, but her 1st canine was nowhere to be found. Her petal bed not wilted but crushed under her weight. She wasn’t as light as light then. Right at that moment, she saw herself spiraling down into herself once again, from the golden cerulean.
The fear wasn’t attenuated; he still lay in bits and pieces. The narrator at this point wants to arm his heavy lexical artillery but is unable to do so, all attempts otiose. He wanted to roll over and assemble himself like some alien living contraption but was unable to do so. He could see his thigh, his bloody thigh and his brain scattered around the corners of his living room. The Nar tocsin had a prominent hint of sibilance now, jeering at our protagonist’s self-effacing defeat.
She was wide awake now, far away from her beauty and grandiose induced stupor. She grabbed her petal sheet and stepped down in a manner that is confused, post coital confused; but she didn’t partake in coitus.
His foot hurt, he couldn’t drive and go to the doctor, and it was badly cut. The narrator now becomes deathly aware of the glaring plot holes but decides to go with it, hoping to find some semblance in the randomness and dark macabre tone of the story he’s writing. Our protagonist was diabetic, and he was in danger of a hemodynamic shock. He took out this iPhone 5s and proceeded to dial his girlfriend but the tone came from his closet or more specifically, the stiletto heels.
When she proceeded to step down, she fell from a great height. She wasn’t as light as she used to be, she wasn’t as light as light, in fact weighed 55 kg (The narrator has a fetish for the metric system.) Her slender tall slender body tumbled and fell through the wind, with least resistance. The goldenish hues were assimilated with her bloody cry and the golden phoenix seemed to weep. The trees swayed and she fell a great distance. When she landed, her head cracked open like a beautiful red sunrise.
Following the rank, the neighbors of the protagonist broke into his home and found a man, blue as the ocean, with his foot split open and piece of glass in the living room, along with chunks of human flesh strewn across and a jeering tocsin. Don’t ask the narrator what they found in the closet…
Te judice was it all a dream? Was it all a dream when he was lifeless under the bloody sheets?