The Whisper of a Lady

I dream of her, my phantom, her haunting face stretched taut with pale skin, wispy white hair falling limp around her red-rimmed eyes. She stares, blind and bleeding, her lips mouthing silent whispers against the aether. Somehow I know she is pleading, screaming, her words drowning inside whatever hell has claimed her. I tremble when she reaches out to me, her fingers inches from my cheek…
That is when I awake from my nightmare, drenched in sweat. I should be relieved, the night terrors banished by the sun. Yet, my torment continues throughout the daylight hours, for she never leaves me.
She is my shadow in the light, the ghost that haunts my waking hours and bleeds me dry for peace. A manifestation of primal fear and my eternal pity, my personal apparition. Her existence instills both the desire to flee and the need to save her.
Am I mad? I have no answer to that question.
Perhaps I might welcome insanity.
The waking world now threads around me unfinished in shades of grey and gloom, with no vibrancy of colour save red; it taints everything, everywhere. I long for sleep and my nightmares. I long for her pale face and crimson eyes. Each night I sink deeper beneath the surface of my dreams and she draws closer to me; my skin craves her touch now, and it is harder to wake in the morning. I never leave the house and barely eat, often staring at my bed, forcing myself to stay awake.
What if I close my eyes and never wake up? Would I finally be with her?
The uncertainty of it all anchors me to this world. Will she bring my oblivion or will I be her deliverance? I don’t know. The not knowing drives me, swirls my mind in frantic visions and terrors. Yet, I feel I will understand soon, for her siren’s song becomes harder to resist. When her fingers caress my face, I will have my answer.
Only then will my nightmare end.
At least I pray it will.

~ A. F. Stewart