(no subject)
"In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning"
Angela had never been one to sleep well. Even as a child she'd found it easy to fall asleep, but staying that way was another story. She'd lay there in the dove grey hours of morning, staring at the inside of her eyelids as if that might become boring enough to allow her sleep. Even before the dreams Angela was not one to enjoy a full night's sleep often. After they began often turned to ever.
They always came at the same time. Early in the morning when the sky was beginning that subtle shift from black to charcoal she would find herself awake, panting and drenched in a cold sweat. They never came in kindness, even when the truth was not so harsh. Arthur had thought it was her ability ensuring that she paid attention, but Angela would have prefered a little less violent sign to make her take notice.
Instead they were dreams bathed in blood and sickly light wherein bodies lay broken, or friends stalked her in a deadly rage. Even Arthur's death had come to her not by his own hand, but by the hand of a dark haired woman in her dreams. A woman who turned, looking as Angela had on the day she and Arthur had met.
They all came in that moment between dark and dawn, when the sky was starting to find daylight and warmth. It was in those hours that Angela was her most cold.
Angela had never been one to sleep well. Even as a child she'd found it easy to fall asleep, but staying that way was another story. She'd lay there in the dove grey hours of morning, staring at the inside of her eyelids as if that might become boring enough to allow her sleep. Even before the dreams Angela was not one to enjoy a full night's sleep often. After they began often turned to ever.
They always came at the same time. Early in the morning when the sky was beginning that subtle shift from black to charcoal she would find herself awake, panting and drenched in a cold sweat. They never came in kindness, even when the truth was not so harsh. Arthur had thought it was her ability ensuring that she paid attention, but Angela would have prefered a little less violent sign to make her take notice.
Instead they were dreams bathed in blood and sickly light wherein bodies lay broken, or friends stalked her in a deadly rage. Even Arthur's death had come to her not by his own hand, but by the hand of a dark haired woman in her dreams. A woman who turned, looking as Angela had on the day she and Arthur had met.
They all came in that moment between dark and dawn, when the sky was starting to find daylight and warmth. It was in those hours that Angela was her most cold.