I have terrible news.
News that may rip the seams of the quilts you knitted to soften my fall, if I ever fell.
Well Mother, I fell. I fell and the seams didn’t hold, not for long anyway. They tore free like a fable that promises so much when in fact it does not exist. However, that was not the terrible news I intended to tell you Mother. The news I must inform you of lies in the stories of devils and angels you had crafted for me in my childhood. You had warned me that both fuel the dreams of humanity, and reminded me again and again to be wary of those sculpted by the devils themselves. Regardless, I found no need in being so superstitious Mother, as I did not think myself to be a dreamer. Now, as my fingers drip with the crimson of his blood, the same crimson that framed our passion, I realize that I am a dreamer. And I am ashamed of it.
I often watched you as you knitted Mother.
I watched how your hands shook as you blended the colors of dreams that were never fulfilled. Dreams that took their dreamers hostage, and never returned. But back then Mother, I thought the red you used was the same shade as the flame of hope that the sun used to brighten the darkness of the heavens. And so when I began to see that same scarlet in my own life, I thought the angels had gifted me with the ability to chase away darkness. I thought that the passion I felt for him would distance us from misfortune, but it did not.
For once in my life Mother, I was ecstatic.
I remember how my days with him were soaked in fiery passion. A passion that brought color to my cheeks and comfort to my heart. I coded the world around me in this shade of bliss. Yet I never stopped to consider that this shade my mind conjured was not one you had used in your quilts. And so, when the car came hurtling towards us—the red car—I saw nothing but that shade that made reality appear a murky russet, but this time there was something unsettling about it. Something unfamiliar. Before I could even contemplate the situation, he pushed me. When I turned to look at him, the shade disappeared. I was no longer dreaming, for he was no longer there.
I am wiser than I once was Mother.
Now I know why your hands shook Mother. You were afraid that the colors in your quilt would make you a dreamer. But Mother you had nothing to worry about. It was me who became the dreamer. It was me who became lost in a world of color that didn’t exist. Now the devils know of my vulnerability Mother. I live my life constantly bombarded by hazel, marigold, saffron, you name it. I reject all of them. Perhaps some of those dreams were sent by the angels, but I do not care, for it no longer matters.
Do all dreamers drown in their dreams Mother?
For I feel as though I am still drowning… I am drowning in the crimson of his blood; melting in the heat of my anger; suffocating in the scent of a bodice that once inhabited this emptiness. Regardless, I warn you not to worry Mother, as I will not be like this for long, for I no longer imagine my hands running up his arms or through the curls of his hair. Dreaming of him
is too painful. Nonetheless, I find comfort and certainty in the perpetual flow of colors around me, tempting me to give in, as they remind me that he once existed. They remind me that dreaming is dangerous.
Devil or not Mother, I will reject all the colors that are offered to me.
For I am no longer a dreamer.
And so, yesterday I was shameful, today, I am honorable.
I want to maintain this honor, Mother.