By A.J. Huffman
The room was too silent. Amy could no longer hear the soft sounds of Andrew’s regularly restless sleep. She lay there with her eyes open. At least she thought her eyes were open. She sat up, and looked at herself in the mirror. What the hell? She didn’t want to scream, or maybe she couldn’t scream. But something was wrong. Very wrong. She was sitting up looking in the mirror, but her reflection showed that she was still sleeping, her arm lazily draped across Andrew’s back.
As she stared at this bizarre reflection, she knew she was dreaming. And yet she wasn’t. She was fully awake. At least she felt awake. She pinched her arm. Ouch! Okay, she felt pain. You don’t feel pain inside a dream. At least you aren’t supposed to. She stood up and moved toward the front of the bed. It was the strangest feeling of her life, looking down at herself. Then the room changed.
It started with a feeling, more than an actual physical change. At first. Amy could actually feel the air in the room thicken. She could feel it, clinging to her skin. Then the ceiling fan slowed, raising the temperature and the hairs on the back of her neck. That’s when everything paled. She thought it was her eyesight, at first. Everything got soft. Edges turned fuzzy. The light took on this amber orange glow, like a winter’s twilight, even though it was the middle of summer and well past midnight.
The sensations were so disorienting at first that Amy didn’t even notice the little flames fluttering around her. That’s what they looked like. Tiny little candle flames. Or maybe over-sized, over-bright fireflies. They were seeping in from the two mirrors. Gently gliding straight from the glass. Some hovered around her for a moment or two, testing her almost. Then they moved on to the bed.
Amy watched in dumb-struck fascination as these fire faeries fluttered about her sleeping self and Andrew. She watched them dance, spiraling up the uncanopied posts of the old hotel bed. They took turns pulling and pushing at the blankets, mounding them, but not removing them. A strange ceremony, completed by their daring dives into her true self’s hair. How odd that Andrew’s hair remained untouched. Amy remembered thinking they must be attracted to the blonde moments before she opened her eyes.
She was lying in bed, her arm still draped across Andrew’s back. A strange sensation of deja vu hanging in the back of her head as she looked around the brightly lit room. What a strange dream. She snuggled closer to Andrew, not upset by the dream’s lingering tangibility, but not fully okay with the idea of being the only one awake in the room either. She closed her eyes, and waited for Andrew to stir.
As she stared at this bizarre reflection, she knew she was dreaming. And yet she wasn’t. She was fully awake. At least she felt awake. She pinched her arm. Ouch! Okay, she felt pain. You don’t feel pain inside a dream. At least you aren’t supposed to. She stood up and moved toward the front of the bed. It was the strangest feeling of her life, looking down at herself. Then the room changed.
It started with a feeling, more than an actual physical change. At first. Amy could actually feel the air in the room thicken. She could feel it, clinging to her skin. Then the ceiling fan slowed, raising the temperature and the hairs on the back of her neck. That’s when everything paled. She thought it was her eyesight, at first. Everything got soft. Edges turned fuzzy. The light took on this amber orange glow, like a winter’s twilight, even though it was the middle of summer and well past midnight.
The sensations were so disorienting at first that Amy didn’t even notice the little flames fluttering around her. That’s what they looked like. Tiny little candle flames. Or maybe over-sized, over-bright fireflies. They were seeping in from the two mirrors. Gently gliding straight from the glass. Some hovered around her for a moment or two, testing her almost. Then they moved on to the bed.
Amy watched in dumb-struck fascination as these fire faeries fluttered about her sleeping self and Andrew. She watched them dance, spiraling up the uncanopied posts of the old hotel bed. They took turns pulling and pushing at the blankets, mounding them, but not removing them. A strange ceremony, completed by their daring dives into her true self’s hair. How odd that Andrew’s hair remained untouched. Amy remembered thinking they must be attracted to the blonde moments before she opened her eyes.
She was lying in bed, her arm still draped across Andrew’s back. A strange sensation of deja vu hanging in the back of her head as she looked around the brightly lit room. What a strange dream. She snuggled closer to Andrew, not upset by the dream’s lingering tangibility, but not fully okay with the idea of being the only one awake in the room either. She closed her eyes, and waited for Andrew to stir.
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A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense. She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.
