The dream had been wonderful, yet it would never be real: she knows, even as she wakes, in the taste of bitter almonds at the back of her throat.
She tries to still herself completely so she can relive it in the morning haze. There was a boy-- no, a man-- and he had called her somewhere, taken her somewhere--
She breathes. In, out. In, out. Maybe there's something in dreamcatchers after all.
There had been a man in the dream. That is certain. There had been a man in the dream, and he had--
The fan drones incessantly. She wants to get up to turn it off, but that would shatter the spell, she knows, and she would be fully awake, lying amongst the shards of her life.
The man. Yes. The man. In her dream. What dream? Yes. That dream.
Bitter almonds.
Gold cyanide.
She tries to push the association out of her mind; tries to expel it, but she has thought it, and it clings to her like a barnacle. She has tried so hard to forget for so long. The sweet nothings in the shell of her ear. The sultry night, not unlike this one--
Oh, how could she have forgotten? She had tossed and turned all of the night, trying to get it out, thinking sleep would never come, the smell of bitter almonds everywhere, everywhere, in her eyes, in her mouth, in her heart.
Then she had fallen asleep. And dreamed. It had been wonderful, but it would never be real, and now she was left with the scent of bitter almon