Unfurl

An unrelenting glare from the other side of the glass. The glow from the window seemed more vivid than the lowering sun above me, a shade of deep grey replacing the blue. It was almost as if someone had torn the light from the sky.

White winged birds passed, darting through branches of thinning autumn trees. No birdsong was to be heard from them, no other sound except faint chatter from behind the door I leant against. I used the steps of the cottage to steady myself, realising a chance to breathe had finally arrived.

Everything smelt metallic. Wounds filled my senses, covering them in vibrant blood. Blood that became watered down by a weeping sky, rain tapping against the few leaves that survived, remaining on their branches. Cascading down were the leaves that didn’t.

Wispy shadows decorated the woodland, like arrows pointing in no particular direction. A sight turned haunting by the near silence, wind the only source of noise in this place. Stark greys and a red born of pain, the only colours I could see. It was limited here, both in atmosphere and possibilities.

Adrenaline kept the pain bearable. Narrowly escaping a worse fate than the injuries that dotted my body, steps soon turning into sprinting not long ago. I was seated now - earlier, the nearest place to sit was too distant to picture. Far away from anywhere I knew, I was still closer to a small village than I had been.

I didn’t want to stop. I knew that a 5 minute walk to the nearest populated area would be significantly multiplied in time, with the limp in my leg and a gaping hole in my arm slowing me down. How they would react to an outsider in an area like this was unknown, too.

Hands pressed against cobblestones, I wearily pulled my legs back into a standing position. It took longer than I could have expected just to channel the strength, shaky limbs pushing me back to the step, trapping myself against the floor of the forest.

I was here, once again.

What happened next was already known to me. I had lived this exact scenario, dragged back through the years by thoughts so lifelike. This was the most common event that repeated through my sleep, my first encounter with a new side of this world.

Knowing I was dreaming had no effect on the outcome of the story. A lucid dream only in the form of awareness, not control. Small details were missed, following the tale as well as my memory could recreate it.

It took the swinging of the cottage door to move me, dead leaves crinkling below me. The horrified expression of the woman in the doorframe was possibly the most striking memory, graphic in its recreation through a dream. A clear picture of a redhead turned pale, the sight of the injured reflected in her eyes.

Not sparing a second to yank me inside, she was desperate to save the sorry sight in front of her. Scrambled words made little sense; I didn’t remember the exact phrasing of what she said at the time, only the frantic tone of her voice. Acts of mercy were unexpected, uncommon in such isolated places.

The glimpse of the cottage that I caught from outside was deceiving. It was definitely bright, both in terms of lighting and the intensity of the colours, but not overbearing. Warm browns, oranges and greens were a change from monochromatic shadows. It seemed worn in here, the furniture lived-in. For a little bungalow in an overgrown woodland, it was… homey.

There was no energy left in me to feel anything but relief as soon as I collapsed against a rugged velvet sofa. A complete change of atmosphere surrounded me. While I couldn’t completely relax just yet, this was a million times better than rotting in the forest, like I was waiting for some tragedy to happen.

The woman soon ran off to alert someone about the fact I had entered the property. This time, the silence around me didn’t feel nearly as ominous. Disturbed only by the stinging sensations of my injuries, my eyes darted back to the birds that still soared outside.

When she returned, it was with her hands full, carrying a tray of both familiar and unexpected items. Bandages, cotton pads, some odd tool I didn’t recognise and an empty vial were some of the choices on display. She was going to attempt to heal my wounds, and for some reason, my trust didn’t falter.

A bit of ripped, dangling lace from my skirt got in the way of cleaning a cut. The woman tore it off with no hesitation, leaving only a fray behind. An action that took me by surprise from a woman so gentle. I watched the lace flutter down to the floor, realising just how discoloured it became from my journey here.

I think we both knew we should have said something to kill the quietness, but no words were coming to either of us. Apart from the occasional gasp and flinch, my mouth was shut. Talking took up energy I was already lacking.

Entering to fill up the vial with some clear, almost shimmering liquid was the man who must have owned the cottage. Pushing his glasses past well-kept dark curls, dressed in something both comfortable and with an aura of mysticism to it. Glassy eyes seemed to look past me, seeing someone else in my presence.

My assumption was that the woman was some sort of apprentice here, clinging on to the knowledge and experience she could gain. She left the room to clean up the mass she had made, humming gently to herself. I never saw her again after this, so it would be almost impossible to know what she was doing at the time.

In an act with little emotion behind it, he handed me the filled glass. A deep breath, an acknowledgment of a few features, deep in a thought I couldn’t imagine myself. The first thing he said since he entered was not my name, but someone else’s.

“Melinda.”

Melinda was gone, she had been for years.