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Something is Wrong.
It isn’t the thing in the woods, whatever that was.
It isn’t the look in Steve’s eyes when he can’t do anything to help his friend.
It isn’t even something as simple as the full moon.
It was thebeautiful exquisite perfect young woman standing in front of him. The nymph with the lovely braids, flowing robes shimmering in the sunlight, dancer’s feet bare. Sweet Eurydice. Solid enough to touch.
“You seem troubled, my love,” she says, her voice just as soothing as he remembers.
“You aren’t real,” he answers, though every fiber of his being wants to run to her, hold her, ignore the Wrongness of her.
“Reality is not something you’ve held strongly to.”
He huffs out a laugh that is much darker than she has ever heard from him. “True enough.”
“And who is to say what is real and what is not?”
His head inclines, conceding the point.
“Will you stay?” he asks, when he finds his voice again, heart already twisting in anticipation of her answer.
“You know better, husband.”
He does, of course, but he had to ask. Just as he had to follow her so very long ago, though he knew better then as well.
“Why have you come?”
“Because you are troubled,” she says simply, and he finds himself wanting nothing more than to let her take that trouble away, to rest in the shade of an olive tree, head in her lap as her graceful fingers soothe over his furrowed brow and thread through his hair.
But those days are long past.
“And how do you mean to fix that, my love?”
“Like this,” she says, her lips twisting into a smile that is sad and resigned and not much else. Her bare feet pad lightly over to him, and he is entranced by the movement as he has always been. Leaning up on her toes, she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth, and he is held motionless by the scent of her, so familiar and so close to forgotten. He feels her warm breath on his ear (Wrong Wrong Wrong), and his eyes close of their own volition as she whispers, “Open your heart, husband. Love and live and be as happy as you once made me.”
Finally, the spell breaks, but when he lifts his arms to embrace her, he finds nothing but cold air.
It isn’t the thing in the woods, whatever that was.
It isn’t the look in Steve’s eyes when he can’t do anything to help his friend.
It isn’t even something as simple as the full moon.
It was the
“You seem troubled, my love,” she says, her voice just as soothing as he remembers.
“You aren’t real,” he answers, though every fiber of his being wants to run to her, hold her, ignore the Wrongness of her.
“Reality is not something you’ve held strongly to.”
He huffs out a laugh that is much darker than she has ever heard from him. “True enough.”
“And who is to say what is real and what is not?”
His head inclines, conceding the point.
“Will you stay?” he asks, when he finds his voice again, heart already twisting in anticipation of her answer.
“You know better, husband.”
He does, of course, but he had to ask. Just as he had to follow her so very long ago, though he knew better then as well.
“Why have you come?”
“Because you are troubled,” she says simply, and he finds himself wanting nothing more than to let her take that trouble away, to rest in the shade of an olive tree, head in her lap as her graceful fingers soothe over his furrowed brow and thread through his hair.
But those days are long past.
“And how do you mean to fix that, my love?”
“Like this,” she says, her lips twisting into a smile that is sad and resigned and not much else. Her bare feet pad lightly over to him, and he is entranced by the movement as he has always been. Leaning up on her toes, she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth, and he is held motionless by the scent of her, so familiar and so close to forgotten. He feels her warm breath on his ear (Wrong Wrong Wrong), and his eyes close of their own volition as she whispers, “Open your heart, husband. Love and live and be as happy as you once made me.”
Finally, the spell breaks, but when he lifts his arms to embrace her, he finds nothing but cold air.
