Wednesday, May 14
Fate
Vic believes in Fate, though it does worry her somewhat that she hasn’t heard from it yet. It's difficult to keep on believe in a thing when it sullenly lags behind you.
fate: noun 1. That which is inevitably destined. 2. A predestined tragic end.
Seems that by dictionary definition, Fate doesn't swing both ways. Fate is tragic, case closed. But Vic labours under the blind belief that the real tragedy would be for it not to appear at all. She confuses it, perhaps, with destiny.
This revelation aside, Vic holds firm (perhaps out of stubborn, mule-headed optimism, something she’s really never been accused of before) to the idea that there’s something in store for her that has yet to be revealed. Something good, if she dare be that bold.
She is thinking about fate tonight because she dreamed the face of her soulmate last night. In a kind of lucid dream, she met someone her sleep self acknowledged as her truest love (and she thinks truest as opposed to true since she does feel there can be levels of truth even in this very exact science of predestination). She grimaces slightly at the girlishness of her own subconscious, but what can you do?
In this dream, Vic swims in a pitch dark pool of water. She holds a flashlight in her right hand as she turns and twists like a dolphin, admiring the shape of her legs in the dim underwater glow. When she surfaces, she finds that she is in an underground cave. The pool of water she floats in is surrounded by smooth rocks. There are steps to ease her way out.
She climbs out of the water, goosebumps rising on her naked skin. At the top of the steps, there is an opening in the cave wall. She follows the path out and finds herself on a catwalk that is washed over and over by large, unsteadying waves. At the top of the metal catwalk, there is a door. She opens it.
Inside, the walls are the colour of non-dairy creamer. Flat beige. This is a clinic of some kind. A place of healing. She isn’t there to be healed. She is there to meet someone who works there.
When she looks into his eyes, in her dream, she recognizes immediately that he is… he is. She doesn’t know the words for what he is. He's not William, that's certain. He is dark haired with glints of gray, but he's still young. He is wearing a wine coloured shirt. He is fair skinned. He is arms around her and lips on hers. He is the one she didn’t realize she was looking for underwater. Just knowing he's been waiting here in a flat beige room heals her right up even though she wasn't sick.
She touches his face and tries to remember him, hard. She says "I want to remember your face tomorrow when I wake up. I want to remember that you’re who I’m looking for so I can stop messing about."
The next morning, this morning, Vic can’t remember his face quite exactly, only his hair and his smell and her limbs numb with fate. It’s nearly painful.
Is it a signal, she wonders idly, or just some patch-work of images and smells and tastes of the day before.
Vic believes in fate. Though she is worried she has just heard from it and its language isn’t one she knows.
posted by Vic |
5/14/2003 09:03:00 PM |
2 comments
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: 9:24 PM