The Poet's Dreams

She walked each day surrounded by ghosts. Impressions. Thoughts she once kept tucked away in her mind, somehow freed and twisted into creatures and objects only slightly less than real. But then, sometimes, they felt more real than she did.

She was detached.

She saw the world through a spiral haze, watching the People and how they interacted with everything. In her heart, if she had one, settled a thick fog of jealousy, and a trembling fist of fear.

It was, after all, fear that held her back. This strong, gripping, inescapable terror of joining the People. Maybe she couldn't interact like they could. Maybe if she touched one, even just in that hand-grasping greeting ritual, they'd wither away before her eyes. Die. And maybe, if she curled her fingers over a door knob, only trying to reach the inside, the bricks and blocks and window panes would crumble and shatter around her.

No, it was better, best, to stay away.

Remove her plague from their midst.

So she stayed here, wherever here happened to be. She made her home on a patch of grass, dry, brittle, yellowed with the illness of death, because at least then she wouldn't have to worry about harming anything. On rainy nights, though, she would worry that her presence in this shallow pool, this puddle blessed with the key to life, was poison.

Maybe if she moved, the grass could live again.

She was selfish, though. Selfish and cruel. She didn't want to move. Fear, again, stifled her, because she didn't know where she'd go or even if she wanted to go.

Confusion. Firm, dizzying confusion. She thought she used to be somebody. One of the People. She had a name and a family and a building. A home. But it was gone. She didn't know where, or when, or what, because she had memories of only fog and ghosts.

The ghosts, the wisps, never stayed for the rain, or the snow. Pretty little flakes dancing down from the heavens, leaving her alone. They melted as soon as they touched her, and she cried. She killed everything. She was nothing but poison. Just… Poison.

Poison slowly climbed to her feet, and wavered, flickered her way to the edge of her patch. She was weak from hunger, having only picked blades of grass, cringing as she tried to find sustenance in them, but she could stand, and she could walk. She could see the green grass in front of her, slowly wilting under the first snowfall.

There was the fear, too often present, as she stood there like a statue. She could try again.

But she was frozen, like the corpse-trees hanging over her.

Anything, anything could happen, any number of deaths and hurts and you stand here as if you actually belong. Who belongs? Not you. Never you. Go back to sleep, Poison. Go back.

But she was frozen.

Back, back, back. Go back.

Her foot crushed, brutalized, ground the green grass into the dirt as she took her first step.

"Sorry, so sorry," she whispered, flinching at the crackling hiss of her own voice. Again, she took a step.

Back, back, back! Where are you going, Poison? No one wants you out here! Back!

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whispered again, and broke into a run. Sprinting wildly through the trees, excited and free and absolutely terrified, her hair whipping back and around her face, catching on the branches and thorns scraping her legs, and she kept running.

She was mindless, she thought. But she kept running, leaving injured life in her wake, until she reached a train car.

It was rusty, stained and smeared with dirt, left alone to rot here in the forest, but it was whole. Poison stopped in front of it, chest heaving as she gasped for breath after breaking her long time of confused, frightened lethargy.

She stared at the car.

Its door was cracked open a little, and slowly she approached. She carefully pushed the sliding door a little further, and it screeched furiously, making her jump.

"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry," she chanted under her breath. She kept pushing, until it was open enough to let her in.

Taking a deep, frightened breath, she climbed inside.

One heartbeat passed.

And another.

And another.

And more heartbeats until she stopped waiting. The barest glimmer of hope lit in her eyes. The train car hadn't collapsed. It was still whole. But maybe only because it had already begun to rot.

She frowned. That was probably it. She could only live with other poisons. The snow outside kept falling, silent and white and cold, and she watched it through the doorway, hoping she didn't wreck it just by seeing.

A sharp twinge in her chest surprised her. It was vaguely familiar, but she was sure she hadn't felt it for a while. Loneliness.

The snow kept falling, heavy, blanketing the air as she curled up in the train car, numb and confused. Her haze had chilled too much. The ghosts had left her, wouldn't come back until the snow melted, and she couldn't even melt it anymore. She had tried, lying out in the forest's soft covering, but there was too much. Even her poison wasn't enough. Not this time.

So Poison retreated to the train car again, and huddled in the middle, hugging her knees to her chest and closing her eyes.

Alone, all alone again. Should've stayed in your patch. Go back.

But she couldn't go back. The snow was everywhere, and her patch was gone. It would probably be green again soon, and then where would she go?

Little snowflakes, falling, falling, like tiny pieces of lace.

Pure and pretty and so cold.

Poison burned with the fever of her own venom. Se couldn't be like the snow. She was rotten. Warm and spreading death.

She'd never be like the People.

The white haze outside swirled in dashing, dancing spirals, coating the world with its delicate frost. Poison watched it, jealous, sad, wistful. A breath of icy air curled around her throat, and sent a chill over her paling skin.

Poison...

There was something familiar about that voice, the vague memories of a woman's laughter, a soft cooing, and warmth. But it hadn't lasted forever. It was gone.

Gone, since the last snowfall. Flickering images raced over her mind, the lacy petals of snow landing on cold flesh. They didn't melt. The woman was too pure, too good. But they melted on Poison's skin, and she knew she was something else. And when the People came, she hid, and watched the woman joining them.

Poison stared out from the train car. So much snow. She couldn't melt it.

Maybe she wasn't supposed to.

Maybe it was her turn.

Slowly, a smile trickled over her lips, and she slipped outside. Fragile trembling hands, dug into the snow, carefully arranging and sculpting it until she curled into its freezing cradle and pulled it over her. A blanket of ice.

She fell into dreams, hoping that when the snow melted again, she could join the People, too.