Innocent nightmares danced through my tiny head only hours after the moon came out. Ancient castles, crystal blue lakes, and stunning meadows; my own country-side. My own battle ground, if needed.
Half-conscious dreaming; I believe that's what Illidan's father called it, when objects appear so clear while asleep. I considered these dreams missions, new objectives in each.
Chests stuffed with gowns a royal may wear were scattered throughout my stone castles. Each time my favourite dress was hidden in a different portion of a different castle. Locating my white gown was only objective one. Before or after finding it, (under a bed, in a crawl space, under a blanket or two) I would locate the black ribbons needed to tie around my waist so that it would not come loose while sprinting about.
Rarely did outside forces interact with my sleep, minus, of course, the sun. The orange globe set fire to my dreamscape. The castles blackened, then collapsed under the weight of ash. The lake boiled, then evaporated to nothing. Castle ash would be carried to fill the pit. The murderous winds continued by carrying the flames, like children, to the fields surrounding my fallen fortress. The meadows, oh the meadows; unrecognizable, flame devoured. The silence of total annihilation is nerve wrecking, or contrariwise, a beautiful, imaginative way to begin the morning. Or rather, mourning..
I was right in the middle of chasing one of three ribbons which had flown away in the wretched wind when this particular little nightmare started the self-destruction process. My eyes took to the sky. How much destruction awaited? For the first time, no sun rays invaded after the ash has settled. I forced my eyelids open only to encounter a rush of darkness. Never had I awoken before the sun, either I slept through the night or basked in its company without even slumber-drifting.
I no longer slept. I stared at the moon without blinking until the room would go all black and the moon set fire. I would do the same when faced the other way, in this case it seemed I had grown fully blind. This game replaced my dreamscape adventures. At fourty seconds I began hulucinating flames at the corners of my vision, to which I would again turn towards the moon and restart.
I kept at this for three nights until I was able to pass out.
This was night the damned inferno began. My very own half-conscious, whatever the doctor named them, dreams as well as hullucinations were setting their course to become a breathing reality. But in this reality, castles were not going to ignite, a cottage was.
Living inside this rosy cottage was the most kind-hearted woman you would ever meet eyes with. Many people avoided her eyes, actually. We were to move in with her in a matter of days. Mum never liked the idea of her living alone, for it got ever so lonesome on the west side of the village and loneliness could drive you mad, or at least I thought so. Rumors of insane hermits capturing youth and boiling them in their black, dusty cauldrons circulated throughout the village. Surely I didn't want my lovely Grandmother turning into this. Every so often I would peek into her pots to make sure no human remains dwelled, call it paranoia.
"Dessie, are you awake yet? Morning-time is ending!" A voice called from the kitchen where my mother was preparing an early lunch. Her voice irritated me with its cheery tones. You could practically smell the rotten honey pouring out with her English spoken words. Only on Sundays, the Lord's day, did I appreciate her wake up calls. Today was Thursday.
"Yes, Mum." I said coldly, she knew I hated the pet form of my name. I sometimes found myself wondering why my parents hadn't named their only daughter a simple name such as Mary or Sarah. Perhaps because they couldn't simplify those names as easily. Somehow Conis and Iris Irving got their little minds wrapped around the name Desdemona. I pronounced it Dez-dee-moan-ah. Others, usually those too bummy to string complete sentences together, pronounced it as 'Mona', 'Des', 'Moanie', or even the wretched 'Dessie'.
