Back to "stranger with no intentions" 1. story-part

Back to "the difference has blurred" 2. story-part

Back to "from Isabelle to you" 3. story-part

I have heard you whisper in your dreams, head steady on the pillow, your hair wild and free, trying to escape across the floor. The words have been blurry, as to make no difference and shed no tears, not willingly. Unwillingly, you have often fallen into the hands of others, of the people, the crowds. I have to grin at that, teeth rows digging into the blanket as my breath roars slowly beneath ribs and lungs. How could the crowds, the people, all those ugly little things that call themselves alive, how could they ever have been able to even detect you? To see you as you move, floating above the concrete, vanishing in sparkling dust? My fangs chew on the blanket, dissipate a growing laugh. I may be a little mean, a little too obvious when you are asleep. You have granted me this right..

..which is to roam your wanton dreams and sullen desires at night. To creep between the sheets and slip over your warm flesh, touch your gasping intake of breath, touch your little porcelain lips. Oh, dearest, the dragon is in your wake. Oh, Isabelle, the dragon is at your feet. The dragon is guarding the entrance to all your desperate longing, rumbling while it rolls along the floor with your clothing, basking in your scent, the hot smell. Some are fragile and vulnerable with their eyes closed. You are merely beautiful.

I have heard idle sighs wandering through your fingers right before dawn, growing larger and more looming as the birds' song falters. They know it's coming now; soon, it's coming now. And I stalk about the windows, always ready for the next attack. For so long I've been carefully prepared and trained to watch over us, and watch out for the real night-stalkers. We've always been slightly different, from light and from dark. And still you encompass both. You're like a little candle in everything pitch-black. That draws out the unspeakable. But you knew this, as you knew that I was just a tiny bit alike that which I now keep you from. There is always the murmur of a shadow in any mirror we pass, any reflecting surface. Still, we carry the candle.

And they know so very well. How beautiful you are, how different we have become, from day and night. We are not vulnerable when asleep. We are not vulnerable when awake. We are not vulnerable when we run alongside life, nor do we show the fear when up against the crowds, the people. You are nearly awake now, I can feel it on your breath. I take a last turn about this room, remembering a lost smell, the scent of a hunter. A wild man, someone whose hands are weapons. He's out there running paths through stranger woods, touching us as closely as we do touch him. I remember he told us things, I remember him from the garden with the blackberries.

Forward to the interlude; take your stormy weather along