Roxie (Wren) Maheu (ex_theredlig387) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-10-18 16:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | dream, roxanne |
Who: Wren and Tristan
What: A dream
Where: Wren's mind
When: This evening
Warnings: It's Wren dream, so memories of sex, death and violence. But she might surprise me?
That night, Wren had stayed in. She hadn’t chased anyone down, hadn’t marked anyone, hadn’t serviced anyone. She’d brushed her hair one hundred times, and she’d gone to bed wrapped in pristine, white cotton to her ankles, after a long bath that left her smelling of berries and cream. The bedsheets were fresh, soft and cotton white, and the duvet that covered her was fit for a princess. And she fell asleep in all that luxury, and she dreamed.
The dream faded in like waves breaking on the shore. Shining glimpses, then darkness, then glimpses again. It smelled like home, the dream, like Florida and sand and salt and the vague memory of coconuts and cocoa butter. The sand at her feet, once it stayed and stayed, was dry and fine, and her toes scrunched and the grains sifted. She was much browner than she was now, her hair sun-streaked with an effortless blonde, and her cheeks red from the heat of being outdoors. Her skin tasted of salt, and she smelled slightly of sweat and the moisture that was always on the air there.
Home.
She did not know she was dreaming as she wandered along the shore, and when the waves crashed against her feet she laughed, but did not flee. In the distance, the old, rain-roughed down house she had grown up in was a gray structure in the distance, close and far at once. As she neared it, the temperature dropped, the water at her feet became cold, too cold for Florida, and the skies overhead turned an angry, hurricane gray.