My heart.

♡

In the hazy realm of dreams, the bar emerges like a shadowy specter against the backdrop of the subconscious. The dimly lit space exudes an aura of mystery and intrigue, shrouded in a veil of mist that dances whimsically around the room.

The air is thick with the scent of aged oak and whiskey, mingling with the faint aroma of cigar smoke that curls lazily in the air. Soft, ambient lighting casts eerie shadows across the walls, creating a sense of depth and dimension that seems to shift with every flicker.

As Cyndi Lauper's melodic voice from the album, She's So Unusual, fills the air, her timeless tunes echo through the dreamlike landscape, adding a surreal quality to the atmosphere. The music seems to emanate from every corner of the bar, weaving its way through the air like a haunting melody from another time.

The bar itself is a relic of forgotten memories, its weathered facade adorned with tarnished brass fixtures and worn leather upholstery. The stools line the counter like silent sentinels, each one bearing the weight of countless stories and secrets whispered into the night.

Despite the darkness that pervades the dream, there is an undeniable sense of comfort and familiarity that envelops the space. It's a place where the boundaries between reality and imagination blur, inviting weary souls to seek solace in the quiet sanctuary of their dreams.

"Can I buy you a drink?" He says, sliding onto the barstool beside you, his grin wide and confident. "Got a husband?" he teases, as if you're not already spoken for. It's a playful game the two of you have been engaged in, a charade where he pretends to be a stranger vying for your attention.

"Oh, stop it," you retort, meeting his gaze, the glimmer of your golden wedding band catching the light from the chandelier in the upscale establishment. "You may, but I'll have you know, my husband won't be thrilled to find another man buying me a drink," you play along, a subtle dance of words in the familiar routine.

"Well, you said it, not me," he quips, turning his attention to the bartender who's meticulously cleaning a glass before ambling over to your spot.

"You two still flirtin' like the good old days? Time flies, huh? Mr. Caron and—" Aaron, the bartender, hesitates as he's about to mention your first name, catching sight of the wedding ring on your finger. "Oh! Mrs. Caron now, I see. Ah.. We've got some Château Minuty 281, just arrived. Care to give it a try?" Aaron suggests in a melodious tone, his deep and raspy voice a noticeable contrast from your husband's.

You and your husband share a knowing look before turning your attention back to Aaron, nodding in unison. The bartender chuckles before turning his focus to another customer, a regular beckoning him for service. Aaron has been a witness to your story since the beginning, a fixture in the place where your paths first crossed.

As you reached for the cup of Rosé suddenly back from Aaron, the dream took an unexpected turn. The air grew thick with tension, and a sudden unease settled upon the dreamlike atmosphere. The once serene ambiance twisted into a nightmarish tableau as the vibrant colors drained away. The bar setting underwent a chilling transformation. The vibrant hues faded into a stark black and white palette, reminiscent of an old noir film. Only the vivid red color persisted, casting an ominous glow on the scene.Your gaze shifted downward, and the pink dress you once wore now bore the sinister stains of crimson. A gasp escaped your dream-self as the gravity of the situation unfolded. The dream, intended as a mere flashback, morphed into a haunting reenactment of the harrowing events that led you to the hospital.

Your gaze shifted downward, and the once vibrant pink dress you wore in the dream now bore the sinister stains of crimson, transforming the innocent garment into a macabre tableau. A gasp escaped your dream-self as the gravity of the situation unfolded before you, each drop of blood a haunting reminder of the harrowing events that had led you to the confines of the hospital bed.

In an unsettling crescendo, the dream morphed into a visceral nightmare. The air grew heavy with the metallic scent of iron as blood seeped through the fabric, staining it in a grotesque dance of red. A suffocating sense of impending doom engulfed your dream-self, and you recoiled in shock as the nightmare unfolded with unwavering intensity.

With each heartbeat, the wounds on your body seemed to pulse in macabre rhythm, each stab of the phantom knife a visceral assault on your senses. The blood, once confined to the fabric, now pooled around you in a grotesque mosaic of pain and terror. It oozed from the wounds like dark tendrils, creeping across the floor in a sinister dance of despair.

The phantom menace of the knife, once a mere fragment of memory, became a tangible presence in this surreal dreamscape. It plunged repeatedly, mimicking the brutal reality you had faced just days ago. Each vivid iteration played out in agonizing detail, capturing the terror and trauma of that fateful night. The dream-self, helpless and trapped within the vivid confines of the subconscious, relived the visceral horror, a spectral echo of the wounds etched into both the dream and waking worlds.

As you sat up in the hospital bed, the remnants of the dream clung to your thoughts. The surreal journey from a serene bar to a nightmarish reenactment left you grappling with a disconcerting mix of emotions. The whispered reassurance to yourself echoed in the quiet hospital room, a testament to the profound impact of a dream that had unraveled the threads of your subconscious fears.

"Just a dream," you pant out, the words echoing softly in the sterile hospital room, but a sense of unease lingers in the aftermath. Your hands instinctively find their way to the sides of your head, fingers gripping the tangled strands of your hair as if to anchor yourself in reality. With a weary groan, you draw your knees closer to your chest, seeking solace in the familiar embrace of your own body.

A cringe tugs at the corners of your lips as you realize the absurdity of speaking to yourself aloud. Self-awareness washes over you like a wave, and you can't help but chastise your own behavior in the wake of the unsettling dream. Your voice, tinged with a hint of self-deprecation, fills the empty space of the room as you dissect the oddity of your own actions.

"That was so embarrassing," you murmur, the admission punctuated by a heavy sigh that escapes your lips. Your hands move in restless circles around your head, fingers threading through the tangled strands of your hair in a gesture of frustration and disbelief. "I have to sit here and think about why I was acting like a horror movie character by saying it was just a dream. No shit."

The realization dawns upon you like a flickering light in the darkness, illuminating the absurdity of your own behavior. With a firm resolve, you vow to put an end to such peculiar habits, a silent promise echoed in the quiet confines of your own mind."I'm gonna stop doing that. Right now," you declare, the words tinged with determination as you shake off the remnants of the unsettling dream. Yet, beneath the surface, the memory of the dream lingers, casting a shadow over your thoughts and clouding your mind with lingering unease. Despite your best efforts to dismiss it, the haunting specter of the dream remains, a testament to the power of the subconscious mind to weave its own unsettling narratives.