Clara, Dreaming by A.W. Cross

Author:A.W. Cross
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-9995711-2-2
Publisher: A.W. Cross
Published: 2021-02-06T00:00:00+00:00

Clara was at another wedding. And this time, it was her own. Or, more accurately, her and Nate’s. But it wasn’t their first wedding. The off-kilter placard above the doorway proclaimed that today was their 101st anniversary, and they were renewing their vows.

But rather than the pride of accomplishment filling Nate’s chest, the sign provoked a gut-wrenching nausea. 101 years? How was that possible? Unless…they were in a Dreaming Life simulation. Yes. That was it. Clara wouldn’t let him die. She kept their bodies alive, year after year, entwined in their shared bed, never to die, never to live again.

Clara gagged as vomit rose in Nate’s throat then ground her teeth together so hard the enamel threatened to shatter. He would not give Clara the satisfaction of seeing the misery his marriage to her had wrought. A vise seized his hand, a hold so strong his bones bowed and crumbled within his flesh. It was Clara, baring her teeth up at him as she used the death grip to pull him along, yet again, toward hell.

Nate and Clara’s dream doppelgangers made their way to the altar, his steps faltering, unsteady. Hers were victorious, dragging his frail body along like prey. They stood at the altar, inhaling the scent of mildew and waiting for the ceremony to begin. Nate's knees began to fail and yet Clara forced him to stand, to bear witness as she punished him yet again.

The weathered benches of the hall were empty, but as the miasma of rot grew stronger, guests filed in, gliding over the cracked stone floor and dressed in the black of mourning. It was time for the ceremony binding Nate to Clara for an eternity to begin.

She peered at her bride. Dream-Clara was also dressed in black, and her features were oddly irregular, as though someone had either created her from a befuddled memory or with an intentional unkindness. She stared at Nate with an expression so depraved, so delighted with the anguish she brought him that acid again burned the back of his throat. Perhaps if his tongue dissolved, she would grow tired of his silence and let him die. He welcomed the pain.

The bile grew thicker as Nate recognized some of the guests. His father was there, his face ruined by the explosion that had taken his life, his clothes singed and marred by soot. He gazed at the couple morosely, muttering with his ruined mouth. Nate ached to throw himself at his father’s feet, to beg for the comfort of his childhood, to be a boy, safe from the woman Clara had become. If only he could change places with his father, he could find peace as ashes, too fine for her to hold in her grasp.

Clara’s father was there too, and she resisted the urge to run to his side and throw her arms around him. His face was gaunt, his mouth turned down as it seldom had in life. The mark of his death was on him, a purple bruise that covered his chest, visible under his open collar.

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