She dreams in purple. Usually it’s a soft romantic lilac that allows her to gently fold into herself like a satisfying yawn or one of those stretches where everything pops and cracks in a glorious symphony.
But last night her dream was the colour of clouds that have built on a hot summer’s day and come crashing together at twilight. A violent mauve film on a mind filled with nightmares.
She wakes with a pounding head and a feeling of gloom, the shadows beneath her eyes the colour of rotting plums.
The black dog is scratching at her door again.
Leave a Reply