I'm interested in dreams as a venue for literary subjects. I like the ambiguity that they offer a story. This is not necessarily a dream story, but it should definitely incorporate them.
A dim light protruded from the colored windows of her little room. There was a door, dark from the weather. I never walked through it, but I was inside. I remember how dark it was. Only foggy illuminations made her visible. She stood with her back to me. Her name was Gabrielle. I never wondered how I knew that.
When she turned to me, I knew I should have been afraid. Her dress was ragged, torn in places, exposing her damaged skin. Shreds of flesh fell from her bones. Beneath the thin fabric I could see her organs. There I saw her trembling intestines, her beating heart and her dead, dried lungs.
But her face was still beautiful. It shined with all the brightness in the room. I knew I should have been afraid.
Like Mary, she opened her arms to me. She smiled so gently. In my heart, I could not resist her. The false prophet.
"You," she said, her voice like a lullaby, "are the warrior of our faith. Stop Death."
Before I could speak, the lights dimmed until I was left in nothing. In darkness.