beginning of a short story III

The Island of Dust



The desperation shattered. Reay's body jolted as his eyes shot open. Sweat, cold and burning, seared his entire body. He was breathing heavily, too, with small, violent gasps in between. Slowing looking around, fists knotted before his face, Reay saw all of the familiar objects of his room- the canvas, the set of new oil paints on the card table, last night's dinner still in the dining room....

He had had the dream again, the one about the fire, the island of dust. He sat up in the stillness of the pre-dawn, gently letting his body adjust to reality, the actuality of his surroundings.
Every night, every night of his adult life his dreams were plagued by these nightmares. No escape.... He lay back down and shuddered, feeling his own mind flooding back into him. He took one last last deep breath. He was finally back in the world.

The woman lying in the bed next to him had not stirred. The smell of her expensive, delicate perfume wafting about the bed contrasted heavily to the sourness that Reay felt within his own body. His torso was propped up by his shaking arms. His legs, with the grey cotton sheets clinging to them, were grazing those of the girl. He looked at her and stroked the tender, pale arms that lay across her breast. He did not love her.

From the nightstand, he produced a small, polished pair of scissors. With these, he cut a single lock of golden hair from the girls's forehead and then placed it, along with the scissors, into the nightstand.

With one kiss against her angelic lips, he arose, draping on a soft cotton robe. Staring at this girl, he sighed heavily, taking in every single drop of her fragrance. There had been one time in his life where he would have been captured by such a beauty, completely drawn out from his wits and senses, compelled to conform to her every want and desire. But not now. Not with the life he had led.

The wooden floor of Reay's broad, relaxed apartment was freshly swept. Reay paused on the threshhold of the bathroom, his gaze and thoughts still lingering upon Julie. He watched through the sliver of doorway which was exposed to him as she rolled over in her sleep. A banner of moonlight, falling from a window in the bedroom, caught her hair and made it glow like a halo. An angel. An angel trapped in hell. He had met Julie about a month before during a presentation of his work in one of her father's art galleries. She had immediately caught his eye; tall, elegant, slender, and breathtakingly beautiful. That night, they spent a few hours in a corner coffee shop, talking. From there, their relationship blossomed. With her witty and classy intelligence, and his sharp, cynical humor, they made a perfect couple. Almost. Then, she began exposing herself to him, showing him a naive part of herself no one else had ever seen. It was then that he realized that Julie had thrown herself at him, showing all of her vulnerability and weaknesses. It was then that he realized that she had gotten caught up with the wrong man.

wrote it when I was 16 - oh, the drama to it, my friends! "he did not love her" and "angelic lips" indeed!