perchance to dream...

All right, it's official. This amazing peice of of history is getting deep into my head. Let me tell you about my dream last night:

I had come from a long journey with my husband to a lavish, sprawling home where we were taken in as guests. On the very first night, dead tired, I prepared myself for bed, pulling back the thick blankets. Before I could climb in, a young woman appeared, in a long white nightgown. She introduced herself as the official "bed-warmer" of the house, which I understood to be a sort of concubine. I told her I did not require her services and she left. She had an air of forwardness that I did not trust and that feeling stayed with me.

Time passes in this house. We explore the many rooms, laden with shelves of objects from around the world. We have meals where course follows course. I hardly ever glimpse the host. After a time we become part of the workings of the house. I no longer feel like a guest. The "bed-warmer" is the other strong presence in the house. I know my husband has befriended her. They talk into the night-- she is full of philosphy and brass. He urges me not to distrust her.

More time goes by, and I am standing with my husband. We are getting ready for bed, brushing teeth together. I turn to him and take his face in my hands. I am filled with deep-gut love for him. I look into his eyes and tell him. He looks so sad. He tells me he is leaving with the bed-warmer in the morning. I feel all the air go out of me like a bellows. A puff of all my hopes.

I storm through the house. I throw things and smash them against the walls. I  know she has seduced him because of the money he has. Our money. She has tricked him, her philosphy ringing in my ears-- " money is just like coupons you exchange for goods" he had said, her words, I hated them when he repeated them, knowing she was getting inside him. Why hadn't I seen the crises approaching? When he left I would be bereft of everything. My life.

I go to a mirror and paint my face with dark blue, making myself ferocious. I know I am a warrior. I am precise with my paiting, blue around each eye, a peek on my forehead. I run through the house, a hunter. I find her, and I stab her through the stomach with a long spike, and hoist her body above me. I can feel the delicate balance of her sternum on my pike, the angle I need to hold her up without her slipping off, her weight. Now-- recounting, I wonder was it him I killed?

I march into the courtyard, where a returning army is parading, pikes and flags in the air, drums beating. I know I am the fiercest of them all and I take my place at the front with my gruesome flag. They are disturbed. A ripple goes through the crowd.

Next I am looking at a newspaper with Denita and Leeann, fellow queens. Did you hear about her? We ask each other. She killed him and then herself. I know it is me we are talking about. Denita has tears in her eyes.

And then I wake.
This is totally true...

-Brianna