Page 30 - The Houseguest

barely distinguishable through the red. The red that was everywhere. The red covered her arms and legs and her pretty blond locks were saturated and fused together from the red. The first thing I noticed was her pace as she ambled unbalanced towards me. There was no skipping. As she walked closer, I held out my arms to hold her tightly, believing there was still time to save her. But just as she reached the threshold of the room, she was gone. She vanished from my mind, from the dream, as quickly as she vanished from my life.
The more time passed, the more vivid and realistic became the repulsive films that repeated episodes on the inside of my closed eyelids. My Karina, my love, my life, would appear floating above me with open arms wearing a flowing satin white dress, as if cruelly enticing me to hold her, to make love to her and to embrace her afterwards the way we had spent countless nights together. But as I would reach out to pull her close, anxious to feel her presence again, the figure would suddenly morph into something grotesque. The same white dress was now torn and bloodstained, worn by a festering corpse. White maggots attached to a few strands of putrid hair, all that was left from the long soft tresses I used to stroke so gently. I remember thinking how brutally callous it was of my own subconscious to conjure up a visual comparison of the rice kernels that lingered in her flowing locks after our wedding. Waking from every night terror drenched in sweat with my heart beating wildly, I’d picked up the phone to dial 911 on more than a few occasions, until I began to realize death would be preferred anyway over this hell I was living.
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The Houseguest by Linda Ellis www.LindaEllis.life