A Glass Rose

The first time he awoke in Room Six he assumed he was still dreaming. She lay on her side, facing him, at the end of the bed. An etherereal beauty, like the lead faerie in a production of Midsummer Nights Dream. These are the sort of dreams that you don't want to wake from, so he didn't.

"Do you love me?" She asked in a voice like pouring honey. "Do I please you?"

His answer wasn't in words, the feeling of affirmation just rolled out of him and he could see by her slow smile that this answer pleased her. His eyes closed slowly, warmth wrapped and consumed him, pulling him deeper inside himself.

The metallic clanging of his alarm clock woke him and he smacked it from the bedside table with a grunt. The rest of the day took its tone from that clanging and that grunt, harsh and unpleasant, mercifully short.

He went through the motions of doing his job but his heart wasn't in it, and when it comes to selling useless products to people who don't want to buy, heart matters. In office after office his display case remained unopened at his feet or in his lap, in most places the secretaries wouldn't even let him in to see the owner. Eventually it became obvious that today was a loss and he should go back to the hotel before he did his local reputation any damage.

Driving to the hotel, he felt oddly eager to get back to his room. The bookcases lining the north wall held secrets he wanted to read, the bathtub was a warm lovers hug, the bed was soaking with dreams of tumbling through puffy white clouds. The bed. Yes, he'd get some sleep and tommorrow he'd be back in his usual form, able to sell ice to Eskimos and a service plan to boot.

Walking into the room was like coming home, a feeling he'd rarely had. By the time he'd finished the rare steak dinner and the hot bath he was ready for bed, though the sun had another couple of hours left before settling down for the night.

Sleep swept down and took him with iron hands the moment his eyes closed, and the dreams were ones he tried to claw his way out of. Piles of bodies with gaping wounds like sucking mouths, black skies dotted with screaming creatures of nightmare and everywhere the prevailing sense that there was no hope, never and forever.

Then she came to him, falling from the black clouds like a seed dropped by a bird, turning and tumbling, the gauzy white dress flapping wild. She called to him in a husky whisper that carried straight to his ear, the screams of the dying fading away with the power of her words.

"Do you love me and do I please you? Will you do all that lies in your power for me, my sweet one? Will you save me from endless night and show me the way to heaven?"

His answer was even stronger than before, a wordless declaration of his neverending want for her, a willingness to lay down life and soul for her to do with as she would. Her smile was like sunlight on water, dazzling and painful to look upon.

"Wake then. Wake and know me, my love."

She smelled of peaches and musk and he knew that he must still be dreaming, because he could see her even with his eyes closed. She lay beside him this time, her hair pooled like spilled wine, her face turned toward him. Her beauty was beyond words, it was a tangible thing, fragile and trembling to be touched, as sharp and delicate as a glass rose. Her breath as she spoke caressed his face more intimately than he'd ever been touched before.

Body and spirit, I belong with you, you belong to me. Together we are whole, apart we are nothing and nowhere.

He reached out a hesitant hand toward her face, not wanting to break the illusion but unable to stop himself. She tilted her cheek up toward him and closed those pale almond eyes. Her skin was shockingly cold at first touch, like melting ice and he made to pull back, but her hand was on his, warm and soft and she held him there, the chill changing into a longing warmth.

Whether or not it was love that they made that night is for others to decide, he lost himself in ways that made it impossible to know.

It wasn't the alarm clock that woke him next morning, it was the smell. Thick and ripe, an invasion of privacy as blatant as a staring eye. He sat up in the bed that was empty of anyone but him and looked around blearily. Red. The walls were red in great wide streaks. Blood. The smell that had woken him was the stench of blood. He closed his eyes hard but the smell remained, unable to be dismissed so easily. He opened his eyes again, mind spinning, trying to make some sense of what was happening.

The body was pinned to the wall by railroad spikes through hands and feet, the head lolling to the side, long blonde hair covering her face. Her nakedness included her insides, the skin covering her chest was pulled to the sides exposing the meat beneath and the slick white shine of her ribs.

As sanity began its slow slide away from him, he heard a whisper, "Body and spirit, I belong with you, you belong with me. Together we are whole, apart we are nothing and nowhere."

• Broken Glass and Ashes
• A Wet Way to Live