Even in Dreams
The Shape of the Thing Challenge Entry.
Despite living so close to an airport, we never stopped and truly appreciated the sight of the different passenger flights soaring into the sky. I remember vividly lying one day beside you, recently, watching the vapour trails as another steel bird left for adventures in faraway places.
I wish I had been more inclined to travel, to sit in the hot den of human flatulence, baby soiling, and body odour, to fly off to uncharted places. I know you craved release and relief. If I'm honest, I did too. Our home felt as much like a prison at times as it did a hideaway from the rest of the world.
We tried staycations, but they never really lived up to the hype. I even tried cooking for you once to give you a break. "Remember that?" is a question you never answer.
Sorrow follows me like a bad smell after days without washing, my lack of personal hygiene a testimony to my intimate knowledge of this aspect of grief. I've not dusted in the weeks that have passed since you were taken from this world - from me. That was normally your job, and it doesn't feel right to steal that from you. It feels disingenuous and unkind. To rob your memory of your role in the life we forged. You were always better at it than I was. Meticulous in ways I could never be - I feel the dust even mourns you.
I cling to the memory of your devotion, though I know deep down, it was my making, my demands that truly shaped it.
Your breath, often flustered and laboured, I'm sure I felt on my arm last night. Only to switch the lamp on and realise it was my own hand. Still, though the echo of your form holds me down at night, like grounded metal birds, planes that never leave.
Looking at my visage in the mirror, I almost catch my breath and raise my hand... to greet you, or what I thought was you. It was just a shadow. My shadow.
I look around the house, shuffling as quietly as I used to, to take you by surprise. I shuffle quietly through the house, surveying the fragments of your presence that remain—the lingerie lined up by the days I preferred you to wear it, the shoes to match, the accessories arranged with care.
You were the perfect part of my life. Perfect because you knew your place. I admit that I find it hard. Or found it hard? When does the tense change get easier? I find it hard to stay focused on reality, the gravity of the situation.
I still feel your touch on my knees when I sit in my favourite chair by the window—the one I’ve always claimed since we moved into this house. Our home, though now it feels hollow without you.
Last night, drifting between wakefulness and deep sleep, I felt your hands on my knees, waiting for me to kiss your forehead and tell you how proud I was of the hard work you had done.
You often made me proud.
I miss you making me proud.
You fixed my lunches, every detail exact, every requirement just right, as though I could never do it myself.
The kitchen is quieter. I often play our song, and it feels like you are back there. I still catch the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the kitchen, and I swear it tightens my chest like a leash. I remember the arguments, the debates, as well as the heated grasps and breathless clamours for air when I devoured you. I can feel your throat and how it felt against my mouth and my hand.
The silence makes your voice louder, that trembling whine you'd utter. The emptiness sharpens the echo of your breath, hitched and obstructed.
Sleeping in bed at night without you—your body, that canvas for my lust pressed beside me—is never the same. Though sometimes I feel you there. Giving me your body and your mind. Your attention and your devotion.
I lie alone at night, craving that sense of balance and order, obedience and love. The love you gave to me, at my knees, on your knees. More than love, at least in the simple terms that other people use when they get all mushy. Though a very small part of me is feeling a little mushy now. The mush doesn't last, though. It never lasts.
Instead, it is replaced by longing for you, resisting me as you so often did.
Your pleas thick in the air, but the funny thing is, even in dreams, you never really escape me.
I long for the sound of my open hand finding you, the sharp report of my belt, the pretty tremor of fear in your voice. In my dreams, it happens again and again - your begging, my deafening silence.
No matter how hard you beg, you never leave. Not even in dreams. Not even like those planes.
*
Thanks for reading!
Author's Notes: I'm sure I'll write a nice story again soon. This, was not pleasant to write, admittedly. But, I think it's a nice angle on the challenge prompt. Hope the subtext is not lost.
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Paul Stewart
Award-Winning Writer, Poet, Scottish-Italian, Subversive.
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Comments (21)
This is so heartbreaking and relatable in the hollow familiarity of grief!! Belated congrats on placing Runner-Up in the shape of the thing challenge, Papa Paul!! 🎉
Congratulations on placing in the challenge… 🥳very clever twist. How am I supposed to drop off to sleep after reading it!😵💫 I’ll have to find a happy story to finish off with.
Another fantastic piece, Paul. You never cease to amaze congratulations
I’m going to say this as poetically as I can: - Holy F&$k, This is such a F$@ked up story it makes me so wish I wrote it. That opening is so poetic and beautiful that I understand the comparison of loosing a loved one. Then you flip the script, dropped the mic rant his one through with a blade so sharp the wound is never going to heal To make us love a character then dispose him is a talent. Paul I apologies for not sei g this earlier, the summer has not been the kindest to myself so I have been vacant a lot from vocal, but things are picking up. I ho wary think this os one of your best pieces Congratulations on Runner up However this is a winners we in my books
Wooohooooo congratulations on your win! 🎉💖🎊🎉💖🎊
Oh man. Good work Paul, this was wicked and dark. It can be kind of fun to write repugnant characters, and when it’s done well it makes for powerful story telling. Great writing, not the kind to make anyone feel good but great writing doesn’t have to mean feeling great.
Congratulations!
Congrats on placing in the challenge, Paul! Great work, richly deserved!
Wow. Just wow. Dark and deeply poetic in an evil sort of way. Definitely a unique take on the Challenge prompt and very well written.
The slow burn reveal done masterfully. The prose, just slightly off in timbre at the start, that the reader first attributes to a man in mourning and not fully right with the world. But then more and more details point to the fact that this is not an anomaly of grief, this *is* the narrator in their most unfiltered form. And then you're hooked in to find out just how bad the truth really is.
If I could say 'damn' in several different languages, I would. I don't know how you do it, but your writing always knocks the noise out of my head. Making me ever so alert to what you're about to say. Inside and outside your characters. There was nostalgia. Vulnerability down to the ugly personal hygiene. You personified the dust even. That little tid bit about the tenses. Only added to the flow of emotions, it did not take me out a wink. Tighten your chest like a leash, if this wasn't the perfect representation of getting pulled back into her presence without her being there. I don't know what is. This was addictive. I think it was because of how vulnerable it was. Sounds like a lot of what most would not admit. I like how you circled the ending back to the beginning. Outstanding work Paul 🤗❤️
You foreshadowed the fiend early on so that I was not surprised when he revealed himself, merely exhausted by his entitlement and neediness. This is exceptional writing, Paul, but a disturbing reminder of the latest backlash against the Me Too efforts to balance the scales. Too many men in this world are barbarous.
Oh wow! What a dark and twisted turn! You did such an amazing job with this. So many excellent allusions to his true nature mixed in with what seems almost genuine grief. This line: "Our home felt as much like a prison at times as it did a hideaway from the rest of the world" perfectly foreshadows the end " No matter how hard you beg, you never leave. Not even in my dreams." And this line made my blood run cold: "your body, that canvas for my lust pressed beside me." "I often play our song," would that be Depeche Mode's "Master and Servant?" I shouldn't have read this just before bed, I'm all fired up now and want to strangle this creep. But seriously, very well done. Best of luck in the challenge!
My jaw dropped when he said that he didn't wanna dust because he didn't wanna steal her job from her. Major red flag right from the start! Loved your take on this challenge!
" the echo of your form holds me down at night, like grounded metal birds, planes that never leave." - gutted! Until the fiend revealed himself, of course... I applaud your captivating tale with gusto!
That was a twist I did not see coming!! Best of luck!!!
God D. I’ve never read a story where I wanted to hug and choke a character at the same time. Like I’m sorry for your loss, bud, but you realize you’re an asshole, right?! lol incredible story, Paul, I loved it.
What a dark fucking turn my friend…. But also: “I admit that I find it hard. Or found it hard? When does the tense change get easier?” This is the type of writing that gets me going. Tremendous line
Poetic, dark, and well written. Felt like a descent to another level of hell with each paragraph. I guess even evil is allowed to grieve.
Great story, sad, but well-told. <3
This story is one way to grieve over someone special. Good job.