I woke up in between a memory and a dream

[mistresswanda.livejournal.com]

The Dormouse
Friday afternoon

I opened against my better judgment.  Mostly because I gave me something to do besides wonder where the hell my husband is, and why wasn't he looking for me. 

Everything here seemed familiar when I let myself in on Wednesday.  Like a dream I could almost recall.  The main room, the kitchen, the bedrooms.  (the basement, and the less said about that the better!)   Filled with things that are mine, supposedly.  I clutched a copy of the complete works of Shakespeare to my chest like a drowning man would clutch a life raft, because that I knew.  That was like a old friend.  I found a picture of me and a long haired blond man, and we look happy...

but his are not the eyes I remember so vividly.  

Odder still, according to the invitation I was newly wed, but with the exception of a few dark hairs and the scent of metal and smoke and leather on the pillow, there is no evidence that I live here with a man.  I found a bloodstained shirt, and wondered why I had such a macabre thing?  Perhaps... oh god!  Was there an accident?  Am I a widow?  I ran across the street to the graveyard next to the church, but found no markers for a Whitman.

Where was my husband? 

So I open, pour tea, listen to people try to recall their lives or convince others that they were part of theirs, and hope to look up into startling blue eyes that I remembered before I could recall my own name.

(closed)

I woke up in between a memory and a dream

[mistresswanda.livejournal.com]

The Dormouse
Friday afternoon

I opened against my better judgment.  Mostly because I gave me something to do besides wonder where the hell my husband is, and why wasn't he looking for me. 

Everything here seemed familiar when I let myself in on Wednesday.  Like a dream I could almost recall.  The main room, the kitchen, the bedrooms.  (the basement, and the less said about that the better!)   Filled with things that are mine, supposedly.  I clutched a copy of the complete works of Shakespeare to my chest like a drowning man would clutch a life raft, because that I knew.  That was like a old friend.  I found a picture of me and a long haired blond man, and we look happy...

but his are not the eyes I remember so vividly.  

Odder still, according to the invitation I was newly wed, but with the exception of a few dark hairs and the scent of metal and smoke and leather on the pillow, there is no evidence that I live here with a man.  I found a bloodstained shirt, and wondered why I had such a macabre thing?  Perhaps... oh god!  Was there an accident?  Am I a widow?  I ran across the street to the graveyard next to the church, but found no markers for a Whitman.

Where was my husband? 

So I open, pour tea, listen to people try to recall their lives or convince others that they were part of theirs, and hope to look up into startling blue eyes that I remembered before I could recall my own name.

(closed)