Dreams the Wind Brings

By Lilysanthesium All Rights Reserved ©

Drama / Other

Chapter 1

"Lillianna," He called out with a gasp.

A gale blew back in response as the girl stopped, painfully turning around to face him.

"Lillianna," He said, begging.

"It's been so long since I've heard that name," She answered, staring at the flowers they stood among.

"So long since I've heard . . . I almost forgot." She added.

He opened his mount, felt his mouth dry and shut it closed, swallowing the lump in his throat. He stood and watched her watch the flowers sway in the wind.

"Lillianna—" He took a step toward her, the wind violently blowing in response. He stopped, taking a step back, the lump in his throat larger.

"You were the only one who ever knew how to pronounce it right," She commented.

“Lillianna—”

“Unless, I don’t know how it’s pronounced anymore,”

“Lillianna, please—”

“It’s been a while—”

"Stop diverting things, and listen to me Lillianna!" He yelled, "I'm sorry." He breathed immediately after. The wind died to barely a whisper. She looked up and he finally saw her for the first time, the lump in his throat weighing larger, choking him.

“There’s—”

“You always had the habit of never letting me finish, you know.” He sighed, looking at her. She kept silent, the wind quiet around them. He felt his knees weak from her stare, just as always.

Once upon a time, she was akin to the goddess Diana, she was the night personified, he once always said; hair long and dark like the night sky, eyes large and bright like the moon, smile demure calming like the night and stars, her everything else the light that contrasted and allowed the night to be seen, she was silent as the night, enigmatic, beautiful.

There wasn't always a happily-ever-after though, he realized, staring at her once lovely face, now marred with wounds that refused to heal, tears — or blood, he couldn't tell — dirtied her, and bandages clothed almost the entirety of her delicately small body — a cloud of smoke and fog covering the light in the night sky.

She was a book where life wrote its beauty, her pages torn out and ripped, blood poured over her words and pictures.

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