"psychologists say when a person appears in your dreams, that person wants to see you."
- unknown

IN MY DREAMS, I was free.

Free, loose, feet running against the green grass—soil, crumbling; soul, thriving; heart, beating. Hair askew as the winds of summer flew by with a violent grace—trees swaying and birds chirping along—I ran, ran as fast as I possibly could. The soft crunch of misplaced autumn leaves was satisfactory to the ears, and although the soft brown colouring stood out against the vibrant yellow of summer, it was pleasant to see it there—thriving, living, breathing.

The place where I was free was one I did not recognise. Clouds of such ivory—free of mans pollution and harm—complimented the stark blue of the sky, which heightened the luminous sun and the heat it exerted. Such vast heat it was, too, for my skin scorched under its gaze and sizzled at the touch or prick, and it had grown increasingly patronising.

Or, perhaps, it was not the sun to blame, but a surprisingly silent Jake Warrens, whose lumbering frame stood out against the green of the grass like a sore thumb. Clad in heavy boots that were made for combat, and a suit made for war, Jake Warrens stood in the field, eyes set on the furthest end with a wishful gaze contorting his face. Wishful, envious and with deep craving.

I do not think that he noticed my presence—not even as I touched his fair cheek and made his gaze settle upon me. His eyes were glazed over—teary and wet, as though he held such sadness even in a dream, where the souls of the damned were meant to be free. Ruffled was his hair, which had grown in the weeks that I'd been acquainted to him, and beneath his shirt I could feel the beating of his heart—thumping, like a drum, and steadily increasing.

"Sometimes we can not escape it," he began, eyes never wavering from my own. His face was sorrowful, smile tight and forced—and his body was slumped, red speckles of blood coating his calloused hands. He held something in them—a weapon of destruction, a gun, decorated with the dried blood of his supposed foes. Jake let out a half-hearted laugh. "To think that we could was just stupid."

"Escape war?" I asked, but I knew the answer. I'd always known—his body told me the story that his voice was reluctant to say; his eyes spoke words of horror, told the story of war—the killing, the screams, the ambushes and heavy panting. The running—crumbling grass beneath your boots, the soft clicking of the gun hitting your thigh in a rhythmic pattern, the distant sounds of bombs and fire and the rapid wind and—

"Escape it all." He said, eyes turned away from me. "Escape our fate, our purpose ... What we were built to be."

"Don't tell me you believe them, Jake." I turned his face toward me, scanning it for a sense of reassurance—reassurance that this, in fact, was only a dream. And dreams were meant to be where I was free, and happy; where reality could not intervene, where the truth about our world was not known—forgotten. But his face was scarred—his eyes melancholy, his body reluctant. And perhaps it wasn't a dream, but a nightmare. "You are not what they say you are." I whispered, hand unwavering from his cheek. "Please, please believe me, Jake Warrens."

"You are the only person who has said that to me, so how am I meant to believe you?" He questioned, stepping away from my embrace. "How am I meant to believe that you don't say those words to use me—to get something from me. I bet you're only here to tell the tale of the monster—to get inside my head and convince me that I am good, that I am no monster and then, then you'll expose me." He was heaving, gun on the floor, eyes narrowed as though he was convinced it was the truth: that I was the enemy, and everyone else an friend. And even though it hurt—and stabbed me in the chest, where I could no longer breath, where the agony overwhelmed me—I knew that giving up would solidify his accusation.

I always hated accusations with no proof.

Steadily, I walked toward Jake. It seemed to be a dance, for when I took a step toward him, he walked back. Forward, back; forward, back. The dance of the feared and the fearful, the dance of truth and lies.

We were in a field, and I was aware that the dance could go on forever, could never end, but something kept me going. Perhaps it was the hint of curiosity in his eyes, or the warmth he radiated that reeled me in, but I kept walking. And soon, he came to a stop.

I was right before him.

Body tracing his, so when he breathed I could feel the texture of his clothing against my arms, his hazel eyes wide—but warm—as the sun came to set. My time was running out it seemed, for when night would dawn upon us, I knew he would be gone. I knew that I would not meet him again in my dreams. I knew that, perhaps, I would never meet him again in person: never feel his warmth, his kindness—the apprehensiveness that he held, the care he took when he wrote words on tissue. I knew that there would never be another like Jake Warrens, and I knew that this was a dream.

"Why did you follow me?"

I did not respond. Instead, I took in the scar that ran down his face, the fragile skin around it a blend of red and cream. In the sunset it seemed to glow, as though the proclaimed Devil's mark was really the mark of an angel. It was beautiful in a peculiar way, how it curved by the brow and etched across before fading into the skin. Marks of healing and scars traced the fine end, before becoming no more. I wanted to feel it—his pain, his anguish, his difficulty. I wanted to understand.

I stepped closer.

There was no space between us.

"Why are you still here, Amandine?"

I was scared—that's why I stayed. That's why I—who does not look for love nor dwell on it—let my heart take over, let the scolding lectures that my mind rambled become mute. That's why I let the sound of my heart be the only thing I heard, the only thing I listened to.

That's why I kissed him.

I kissed Jake Warrens—

—and it felt so real. The brush of his lips, the cracked texture—rough, like the material of his camouflaged gear—and the warmth that he emitted. His hand rested on the dip of my back, grip firm—as though I was to run away—although his kiss was gentle, time consuming. There was no lust, no craving but a subtle passion, a deep loving. It was as if he was before me, standing, living, running, heart beating. It was as if he had never gone to war, as if he was never a proclaimed monster, as if I was never a maid.

It was so real, but it didn't last long.

My eyes fluttered open, and I was greeted with those misplaced winds and the harsh glare of the summer sun. Jake was not there. The field was not there. My happiness was not there, and that's when I realised it was all just a dream.

That it never really happened.