Abstract Ethics
Miss Rose's Dream
Miss Rose awoke from her nightmarish dream with sweat running down her forehead and her face a shade of ghastly pallor. Her stomach felt like unsettled and stormy seas. She walked unsteadily to the bathroom, pulling out a porcelain washbasin painted with pretty roses and filled it to the brim with icy water, swirling it round and round, before splashing it on her face.
In her dream, which had no dreamlike qualities at all and had felt entirely too real, she had run like a hare through St. Mary’s churchyard, tripping and jolting on the tomb-slabs which had become a part of the pathway. Lungs screaming and ripping with terror, it had seemed as though she had run so fast she was going backwards, as her failing limbs protested. Only the basest instinct for self-preservation had kept her running when her sickly legs had faded, as she dashed crazily across the dark grass and towards the great ruins of the abbey, rising from the cliff top with shards like ancient stalagmites. Leaning up against the ancient stone, she glanced for a moment out to the sea, and saw how the sea walls, cupping like great hands, seemed to hold the seas in their grasp. But idle observation would not save her now.
It was she. The evil woman, death’s bride, was advancing towards her in the long shadows cast by the ancient ruins. Her burning eyes gleamed with malicious delight. But she was not alone, no, because in her shadow trailed the form of a beautiful young man with his sorrowful, calculating eyes.
Backing up against the wall, Miss Rose – less a racing hare now, but a frightened rabbit – could barely contain her terror, but she looked on Vyvyan’s face pleadingly.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered, with a low voice.
She shook her head, wide-eyed. The Contessa approached, unremitting in her steps, a well-practiced huntress.
“Close your eyes,” said Vyvyan, his tone now more compelling.
But Miss Violet Rose refused to accede, out of some small knowledge that, despite the inevitability of her fate, she would defy them in any way she could, however miniscule.
The walls of the abbey seemed to shrink and lean in, until everything around was black and confused.
It was then that she awoke, shaking.
In her dream, which had no dreamlike qualities at all and had felt entirely too real, she had run like a hare through St. Mary’s churchyard, tripping and jolting on the tomb-slabs which had become a part of the pathway. Lungs screaming and ripping with terror, it had seemed as though she had run so fast she was going backwards, as her failing limbs protested. Only the basest instinct for self-preservation had kept her running when her sickly legs had faded, as she dashed crazily across the dark grass and towards the great ruins of the abbey, rising from the cliff top with shards like ancient stalagmites. Leaning up against the ancient stone, she glanced for a moment out to the sea, and saw how the sea walls, cupping like great hands, seemed to hold the seas in their grasp. But idle observation would not save her now.
It was she. The evil woman, death’s bride, was advancing towards her in the long shadows cast by the ancient ruins. Her burning eyes gleamed with malicious delight. But she was not alone, no, because in her shadow trailed the form of a beautiful young man with his sorrowful, calculating eyes.
Backing up against the wall, Miss Rose – less a racing hare now, but a frightened rabbit – could barely contain her terror, but she looked on Vyvyan’s face pleadingly.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered, with a low voice.
She shook her head, wide-eyed. The Contessa approached, unremitting in her steps, a well-practiced huntress.
“Close your eyes,” said Vyvyan, his tone now more compelling.
But Miss Violet Rose refused to accede, out of some small knowledge that, despite the inevitability of her fate, she would defy them in any way she could, however miniscule.
The walls of the abbey seemed to shrink and lean in, until everything around was black and confused.
It was then that she awoke, shaking.