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That name. Spoken softly.
Repeated slowly, in a voice so sweet and somehow familiar and foreign all at once.
The sky. Blue, clear, but with a tinge of malice. Murder.
It was a dream. One that Eron had been having for as long as she could remember. One that had been dismissed by many as next to nothing. Dont worry about it. Thats what everyone said. Everyone has recurring dreams.
But it was more to her than that. Of course she had normal dreams, as well. Usually random things like high school reunions (didnt she just leave that place last year..?), cars that didnt drive right, and multicolor ponies. But this one had more depth, more density, as if it were happening as she dreamt it. And each time she had it, more would be uncovered. Like one tiny piece of a jigsaw puzzle was being found and positioned into place.
She felt now as though it was getting closer to completion
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
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