The dream...or should that be nightmare?

Heavy snowfall. A loud noise. A brilliant flash of light. Smell of burnt rubber. Silence.

It was always the silence that scared her the most. She always got up abruptly, her bedclothes tangled up around her knees, her forehead beaded with sweat glistening in the dawn hours. The faint sound of birds chirping beyond the meadow did not soothe her frazzled nerves as they usually did. Her hands grasped the edge of the bed and the quilt lying across her quivering body.

She never remembered what she dreamed about. She only remembered the silence that followed. And that dreaded hush always jolted her out of her slumber.

Her breathing was always loud and hurried, and it was the only time of day when she wasn't in complete control of her senses. She was at her most vulnerable, and it was not a feeling she liked. She had stopped trying to recall the dream. It had been stalking her ever since she had come to live with her uncle and aunt. At first her relatives had been deeply concerned and had tried to help her with warm milk and a bedtime story, but soon they had come to realize the futility of their efforts and had finally given up.

Try as she might, Miranda could not recall even the slightest bit of the dream. She could only remember the deathly pallor of her skin and the goosebumps along her arm that often followed it. The mirror facing her bed was the only witness to her distress nowadays. As unwavering as her daily schedule, the dream had also carved an appointment for itself in her chore journal. It was not confined to a particular time slot, but it was as dependable as the cuckoo that flew out of the Grandfather clock every hour.


**** Work in progress. Please come back later.****



The End

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