A million dreams consumed me. Dreams of my mother, my father. Dreams of Mina. Dreams of dusty skin on rickety floorboards. Dreams of amber eyes and silver wings.
I dreamed of mundane days and torrid nights. I dreamed of a body pressing me to a silk-sheeted bed. I dreamed of needles and vials and flower petals on a wall.
In my dreams I couldn’t breathe, and I’d struggle and struggle, and then I’d put my head between my knees and choke up blood and roses.
Time passed. So much time. Flashes of the past and future, this world and the next, life and death. Pain, fever. Consciousness, unconsciousness.
I’m dead, I thought. I’m dead. This is death. Or is it life?
Maybe, a voice said, it’s something in between, mouse.
