Shadowfever
Page 13
When he kisses me, Barrons vanishes from my head. The pain recedes.
On the lips of my enemy, my sisters lover, my lovers killer, I taste the punishment I deserve. I taste oblivion.
It makes me cold and strong again.
I have dreamed of houses all my life. I have an entire neighborhood in my subconscious that I can get to only while sleeping. But I cant control my nocturnal visits any more than Ive ever been able to avoid my Cold Place dreams. Sometimes Im granted passage and sometimes Im not. Certain nights the doors open easily, while others I stand outside, denied entrance, longing for the wonders that lie within.
I dont understand people who say they cant recall their dreams. With the exception of the Cold Place dream, which I began blocking long ago, I recall all the others. When I wake in the morning, theyre floating through my mind in fragments, and I can either spring out of bed and forget them or gather up the pieces and examine them.
I read somewhere that dreams about houses are dreams of our souls. In those dwellings of our psyche, we store our innermost secrets and desires. Perhaps thats why some people dont remember themthey dont want to. A girl I knew in high school once told me she dreamed of houses, too, but they were always pitch black and she could never find the light switch. She hated those dreams. She wasnt the brightest bulb in the box.
My houses are endless, filled with sunshine and music, gardens and fountains. And for some reason there are always a lot of beds. Big beds. Way more than any house needs. I dont know what the deal is with that, but I think it might mean I think about sex a lot.
Sometimes I worry that theres not enough room in my brain for both my dreams and reality, that Im a hard drive with limited gigabytes and one day I wont be able to maintain the firewall between them. I wonder if thats what senility is.
Over the years, Ive begun to suspect that all the houses of which Ive been dreaming are just different wings of the same great house.
Today I realize its true.
Why have I been dreaming of the White Mansion all these years?
How could I possibly have known it existed?
Now that Im a little over the edge anyway, I can admit something: My whole life, Ive secretly been afraid that beneath my fiercely focused grooming and accessorizing, Im, well psychotic.
Never underestimate a well-dressed bimbo.
The real thinkers of the world arent the best dressed. Staying on top of the latest fashions, accessorizing, and presenting oneself is time consuming. It takes a lot of effort, energy, and concentration to be incessantly happy and perfectly groomed. You meet somebody like thatask yourself what theyre running from.
Back in high school, I began to suspect I was bipolar. There were times when, for no good reason at all, I felt downright, well homicidal was the only word for it. I learned that the busier I stayed, the less time I had to feel it.
Isometimes wonder if before I was born someone showed me the script or filled me in on the highlights. Its dj vu to the worst extreme. I refuse to believe I would have auditioned for this role.
As I stare at the White Mansion and I know what parts of it look like insideand I know theres no way I could know those thingsI wonder if Im a serious nutcase. If none of this is happening, because Im really locked up in a padded cell somewhere, hallucinating. If so, I hope they change my drugs soon. Whatever Im on isnt working.
I dont want to go in there.
I want to go in there and never leave.
Duality is me.
The House has countless entrances, through elaborately manicured gardens.
Darroc and I enter one of the gardens. Its so lovely its almost painful to look at. Paths of glistening gold pavers unfurl through exotic, perfumed bushes and circle clusters of willowy silver-leafed trees. Dazzling pearl benches offer respite from the sun beneath lacy leaves, and silk chaises dot outdoor rooms of billowing chiffon. Flowers bend and sway in a light, perfect breeze, the precise degree of sultrynot too hot or moist but warm and wet, like sex is warm and wet.
I have dreamed of a garden like this. Small differences but not many.
We pass a fountain that sprays rainbows of shimmery water into the air. Thousands of flowers in every dazzling shade of yellow circle it: velvety buttercups and waxy tulips, creamy lilies and blossoms that do not exist in our world. For a moment I think of Alina, because she loves yellow, but that thought reeks of death and brings other thoughts with it, so I turn away from the beauty of the fountain and focus on the hated face and voice of my companion.
He begins to give me instructions. He tells me were looking for a room with an ornate gilt-framed mirror that is approximately ten feet tall by five feet wide. The last time he saw the room, it was empty of all furnishings, save the mirror. The corridor off which the room opened was light, airy, and had a floor of unbroken white marble. The walls of the corridor were also white and adorned with brilliant murals between tall windows.
Keep an eye out for white marble floors, he instructs me, because only two of the wingsas of the last time he was herehave them. The floors in other wings are gold, bronze, silver, iridescent, pink, mint, yellow, lavender, and other pastels. The rare wing is crimson. If I see a black floor, I am to turn back immediately.
We enter a circular foyer with a high glass ceiling that collects the sunny day. The walls and floor are translucent silver and reflect the sky above in such vivid detail that, when a cream-puff cloud scoots overhead, I feel as if Im walking through it. What a clever design! A room in the sky. Did the concubine create it? Did the Unseelie King design it for her? Could a being capable of creating such horrors as the Unseelie also create such delights? Sunlight bathes me from above, bounces back at me from the wall and floors.
On the lips of my enemy, my sisters lover, my lovers killer, I taste the punishment I deserve. I taste oblivion.
It makes me cold and strong again.
I have dreamed of houses all my life. I have an entire neighborhood in my subconscious that I can get to only while sleeping. But I cant control my nocturnal visits any more than Ive ever been able to avoid my Cold Place dreams. Sometimes Im granted passage and sometimes Im not. Certain nights the doors open easily, while others I stand outside, denied entrance, longing for the wonders that lie within.
I dont understand people who say they cant recall their dreams. With the exception of the Cold Place dream, which I began blocking long ago, I recall all the others. When I wake in the morning, theyre floating through my mind in fragments, and I can either spring out of bed and forget them or gather up the pieces and examine them.
I read somewhere that dreams about houses are dreams of our souls. In those dwellings of our psyche, we store our innermost secrets and desires. Perhaps thats why some people dont remember themthey dont want to. A girl I knew in high school once told me she dreamed of houses, too, but they were always pitch black and she could never find the light switch. She hated those dreams. She wasnt the brightest bulb in the box.
My houses are endless, filled with sunshine and music, gardens and fountains. And for some reason there are always a lot of beds. Big beds. Way more than any house needs. I dont know what the deal is with that, but I think it might mean I think about sex a lot.
Sometimes I worry that theres not enough room in my brain for both my dreams and reality, that Im a hard drive with limited gigabytes and one day I wont be able to maintain the firewall between them. I wonder if thats what senility is.
Over the years, Ive begun to suspect that all the houses of which Ive been dreaming are just different wings of the same great house.
Today I realize its true.
Why have I been dreaming of the White Mansion all these years?
How could I possibly have known it existed?
Now that Im a little over the edge anyway, I can admit something: My whole life, Ive secretly been afraid that beneath my fiercely focused grooming and accessorizing, Im, well psychotic.
Never underestimate a well-dressed bimbo.
The real thinkers of the world arent the best dressed. Staying on top of the latest fashions, accessorizing, and presenting oneself is time consuming. It takes a lot of effort, energy, and concentration to be incessantly happy and perfectly groomed. You meet somebody like thatask yourself what theyre running from.
Back in high school, I began to suspect I was bipolar. There were times when, for no good reason at all, I felt downright, well homicidal was the only word for it. I learned that the busier I stayed, the less time I had to feel it.
Isometimes wonder if before I was born someone showed me the script or filled me in on the highlights. Its dj vu to the worst extreme. I refuse to believe I would have auditioned for this role.
As I stare at the White Mansion and I know what parts of it look like insideand I know theres no way I could know those thingsI wonder if Im a serious nutcase. If none of this is happening, because Im really locked up in a padded cell somewhere, hallucinating. If so, I hope they change my drugs soon. Whatever Im on isnt working.
I dont want to go in there.
I want to go in there and never leave.
Duality is me.
The House has countless entrances, through elaborately manicured gardens.
Darroc and I enter one of the gardens. Its so lovely its almost painful to look at. Paths of glistening gold pavers unfurl through exotic, perfumed bushes and circle clusters of willowy silver-leafed trees. Dazzling pearl benches offer respite from the sun beneath lacy leaves, and silk chaises dot outdoor rooms of billowing chiffon. Flowers bend and sway in a light, perfect breeze, the precise degree of sultrynot too hot or moist but warm and wet, like sex is warm and wet.
I have dreamed of a garden like this. Small differences but not many.
We pass a fountain that sprays rainbows of shimmery water into the air. Thousands of flowers in every dazzling shade of yellow circle it: velvety buttercups and waxy tulips, creamy lilies and blossoms that do not exist in our world. For a moment I think of Alina, because she loves yellow, but that thought reeks of death and brings other thoughts with it, so I turn away from the beauty of the fountain and focus on the hated face and voice of my companion.
He begins to give me instructions. He tells me were looking for a room with an ornate gilt-framed mirror that is approximately ten feet tall by five feet wide. The last time he saw the room, it was empty of all furnishings, save the mirror. The corridor off which the room opened was light, airy, and had a floor of unbroken white marble. The walls of the corridor were also white and adorned with brilliant murals between tall windows.
Keep an eye out for white marble floors, he instructs me, because only two of the wingsas of the last time he was herehave them. The floors in other wings are gold, bronze, silver, iridescent, pink, mint, yellow, lavender, and other pastels. The rare wing is crimson. If I see a black floor, I am to turn back immediately.
We enter a circular foyer with a high glass ceiling that collects the sunny day. The walls and floor are translucent silver and reflect the sky above in such vivid detail that, when a cream-puff cloud scoots overhead, I feel as if Im walking through it. What a clever design! A room in the sky. Did the concubine create it? Did the Unseelie King design it for her? Could a being capable of creating such horrors as the Unseelie also create such delights? Sunlight bathes me from above, bounces back at me from the wall and floors.
