Written for Tale Weaver #24: Goodnight Mrs. Calabash, Wherever You Are.
Shake off the nightmare; leave the screechy spiky creatures behind. Wind gently stirs white curtains. Wait. No window sill set in that wall. Have no white curtains. Wake up.
Open my eyes. Back in my bed. Back in my room. I scan the space around me. When did a dark stained 5 drawer begin snuggling into the corner? Close my eyes.
Silvery flash of my reflection in the mirror, ashen, shaking. Small, antique-framed water colour paintings should splash against the wallpaper.
Orangey-yellows suffuse the room. Richly polished and carved wood bedframe of filigreed ivy and winter-bare branches gleams dawn.
Wake up. Wake up. Slide out of bed. Feet pad across cool wooden floor. Turn worn china door knob. This is not my door, but a door to terror. Outside this door waits my nightmare.
Trapped between last night and this morning. Caught in moon-set and dawn-rise.
Pace the room, taking inventory. Window frame lilac, curtains mauve. Low chest of drawers a haunted gray. Metal bedframe painted chocolate brown. Tarnished brass door knob. I can breathe again. Close my eye lids tight, just in case, . . . .
I experience layered dreams. In borderline rooms, I find objects that shouldn’t be there; unfamiliar positioning of windows and doors. The number of layers shifts; the transmuted rooms altered in various ways. “Layers” is a composite of such dreams.