I came to a party in a large, dark house. There were clocks everywhere, mostly ancient, dusty grandfather clocks, though I don't know if any were ticking. The space was unlit and the shaded windows only hid the night outside. I made my way through the crowded house and headed to the basement. The entryway down was strangely white, although the room it led to was full of shadows. There were a dozen or so people sitting and talking here, some I recognized from grade school. The air was awkward and tight. As I entered, they stared at me and I felt an overwhelming sense of intrusion.
Samwell Tarley was there, an old friend? We began talking as lightning forked quietly outside. He was standing directly in front of me, my back to the stairs. I looked at him and pushed my hip out the the right, keeping heavy eye contact with him. As I did, the ground shook violently. The walls chattered and everybody toppled over. Sam stumbled onto me and we fell backwards onto the stairs, which were now smooth and slide-like. He looked down at me, his eyes big and nervous. I smiled and kissed him. He held the kiss for a moment, but quickly pulled away frightened. I noticed the others in the room staring, looking fierce daggers at me.
I saw an old friend in a nearby chair, but he wouldn't meet my gaze. His wife walked up, scowled, and said, "I'm going to sit over here, Erica," gesturing to an empty bit of carpet in the hall I was now sitting in. There was no warmth in her, although I have known her since we were children. I rested my head against a door frame. The room it led to was filled with a muted, golden light, and was the only source of light in the dark basement. Sam looked at me from across the room and gave me a sad, puzzled look. I closed my eyes, knowing I wasn't in the right place.
When I opened my eyes, I was upstairs in a dark bathroom. I stood in front of a great, gilded brass mirror and a large, white basin sink. The walls were covered in intricate charcoal wallpaper. I had just woken up, and saw my messy, tangled hair in the mirror. I looked at my reflection and realized I had to go back downstairs and try to explain myself. I started putting on makeup, but the foundation caked onto my skin, which was extremely dry, cracked, and scaled like an animal. The powder gathered in the thin cracks, lacing my face with fine, white, criss-crossing webs. I tried to use my hands to even it out, but noticed a ragged white edge protruding from the tip of my nostril.
I looked closer and realized it was faded white canvas, buried beneath my skin. I grabbed hold of the edge of my skin and lifted gently; the canvas continued underneath as far as I could see. My skin was wet and sticky, pink and raw on its bottom. I saw the same white edge along my hairline and fingered it. I was wearing a mask of flesh, and was just a white, blank canvas sack beneath. An image of a limp, faceless scarecrow flashed in my mind, and I woke up.
Samwell Tarley was there, an old friend? We began talking as lightning forked quietly outside. He was standing directly in front of me, my back to the stairs. I looked at him and pushed my hip out the the right, keeping heavy eye contact with him. As I did, the ground shook violently. The walls chattered and everybody toppled over. Sam stumbled onto me and we fell backwards onto the stairs, which were now smooth and slide-like. He looked down at me, his eyes big and nervous. I smiled and kissed him. He held the kiss for a moment, but quickly pulled away frightened. I noticed the others in the room staring, looking fierce daggers at me.
I saw an old friend in a nearby chair, but he wouldn't meet my gaze. His wife walked up, scowled, and said, "I'm going to sit over here, Erica," gesturing to an empty bit of carpet in the hall I was now sitting in. There was no warmth in her, although I have known her since we were children. I rested my head against a door frame. The room it led to was filled with a muted, golden light, and was the only source of light in the dark basement. Sam looked at me from across the room and gave me a sad, puzzled look. I closed my eyes, knowing I wasn't in the right place.
When I opened my eyes, I was upstairs in a dark bathroom. I stood in front of a great, gilded brass mirror and a large, white basin sink. The walls were covered in intricate charcoal wallpaper. I had just woken up, and saw my messy, tangled hair in the mirror. I looked at my reflection and realized I had to go back downstairs and try to explain myself. I started putting on makeup, but the foundation caked onto my skin, which was extremely dry, cracked, and scaled like an animal. The powder gathered in the thin cracks, lacing my face with fine, white, criss-crossing webs. I tried to use my hands to even it out, but noticed a ragged white edge protruding from the tip of my nostril.
I looked closer and realized it was faded white canvas, buried beneath my skin. I grabbed hold of the edge of my skin and lifted gently; the canvas continued underneath as far as I could see. My skin was wet and sticky, pink and raw on its bottom. I saw the same white edge along my hairline and fingered it. I was wearing a mask of flesh, and was just a white, blank canvas sack beneath. An image of a limp, faceless scarecrow flashed in my mind, and I woke up.
