Chapter 4 – The First Dream
393 Words
That night, I didn’t sleep.
I lay on the floor of the painting room, facing the canvases, trying desperately to force my mind to remember even the smallest fragment of my past. But the harder I tried, the more my head throbbed, as if gripped tightly by invisible hands.
I opened the notebook. Flipped quickly to the next pages.
"March 19 — I saw her standing by the bed, watching me.
I asked, 'Are you still alive?'
She didn’t answer.
Just smiled."
"I paint while dreaming. I don’t control my hand. It feels like it belongs to someone else."
I was exhausted. My eyelids grew heavy. Before I knew it, I slipped into sleep.
...
I dreamed.
In my dream, I was standing in the middle of a black lake. No shore, no sky—just cold water and a gray mist hanging like smoke. She stood on the other side of the lake—the woman from the paintings—her long hair drenched, falling over her face.
I called out:
— Who are you? Who am I?
She didn’t answer. Slowly, she waded closer. Her steps made no ripples on the water. Her eyes were dim behind the wet strands, but I knew she was looking at me. As if she once knew me. As if she once loved me. Or hated me to the core of her bones.
She stopped a step away from me. Then whispered:
— Do you remember the first time you killed me?
I stepped back.
— I… No! I didn’t kill anyone!
She lifted her head. Her face was bloodied, cheekbones broken. Her lips curled into a deathly smile.
— It’s okay. I’ll remind you.
She reached out—and pulled me under the water.
I struggled.
The water was icy cold. I couldn’t breathe. She dragged me deeper. The light above faded away. My eyes were wide with panic.
At the bottom of the lake were hundreds of women’s bodies—each one her—dead in countless ways.
I screamed—and woke up.
The room was pitch dark.
But right in front of me, on the easel, was a painting I had never seen before.
I was being drowned, eyes wide open. Above me, she looked down—her gaze filled with unbearable sadness.
This time, she was the one killing me.
- Writer
