In Her Dreams

I couldn’t help her.

Her pain was so great, it literally broke her heart, but I couldn’t let her go.

It so cliche. We met in a bar. She was wearing a white shift dress with a pink bola and a bow in her hair. It was an awkward type of 80s chic that shouldn’t have worked, but somehow it did. I was instantly drawn to her, as if she was a magnet and I were iron.

We talked and laughed, she told me about her daughter, her work, and her hobbies. I sat listening, mesmerized as to how she made taking a train to work into an adventure, getting coffee worthy of a daytime drama, and spending time with her daughter into a fairy tale. It was as close to perfect as a chance encounter could get and I never wanted it to end.

Then, her cell phone rang. In two seconds, her face went from rosy and perfect to grey. Her panic was severe, and she jumped up and ran out of the bar to the street outside leaving her purse and coat behind. I grabbed her things and followed on her heels.

I hailed a cab for us, when five passed her by, obviously avoiding her in her distress.

I stayed with her as we walked into the colossal maze of a hospital building.

I hovered at the door as she walked toward the far too small figure covered with a white sheet.

I caught her as she collapsed.

I abused my abilities.

I cast the spell ‘Morning Elegance’ trapping her in this world. In her dreams, she went about her daily business: catching the bus to work, going out with friends, meeting me at the bar, everything up to the point where she got the call that let her know her daughter had been murdered, and then she reset to the day before.

It was selfish, having her exist in a dream of living where she went about her day, never realizing that she was asleep, but I couldn’t bear to see her go. You see, I love her and it wasn’t her time.

-- 358 words