And then, nothing. An infinite ocean brimming over with nothing. He was floating in it, swaying, eternity gently lapping at his toes and washing over his face, almost motherly caresses wiping away the crimson trace of his misdemeanours.
- You naughty boy.
The drift carried the soft whispering. Suddenly he was little again, his motherteasingly chiding him for some minor misconduct.
- I didn't do anything!
He felt compelled to yell, to justify his hand stuck in the cookie jar. The surf giggled, tickling his sides and tugging at his fingers. His eyes were still closed, he didn't even know if he was capable of opening them, mostly because he didn't want to. This trace of a memory was too faint, too delicate to be shattered by what could be lurking outside his mind. Like a playful mermaid, the rippled vastness taunted him,murmuring provokingly until the silent clamor was almost ear-splitting.
- It's not my fault I liked Joan!
Everything went dead still. Pulled onto dry land like a stranded skiff, he stayed still, anchored, and thought of the woman that had navigated his debacle. Joan. JOAN! He screamed soundlessly.
The last he had seen of her was the tantalizingly red ribbon in her hair; the two loops of the bow joined at one end but helplessly separated, oscillating to the rhythm of her graceful gait. His memory slid down her slender neck, stopped momentarily at the curve where it joined the shoulder to form a perfect harmony of almost mathematical symmetry , each contour of her torso so carefully sculpted that he'd often thought that if God ever lost his job as being the supreme destroyer of the universe, he could find work as an engineer.
Many a times, he had marveled at her near feline poise, her earth-coloured skin and lightness of being giving the impression that at the least sight of danger she would fade into her surroundings - disappear – the cold air of her presence and the ice shards of her narrow eyes betraying the notion that she'd even been there in the first place. At times, his crotch scorched like a desert in the blazing sun, he would close his eyes and reach out for her, feeling the air,stroking her imagined back, as if he were molding her in his memory. He would knead her soft earthen skin, draw lines with his fingers of be ads of perspiration that glistened like dew, his nostrils flaring with the scent hedidn't know but imagined to smell like a wild garden, heady scent of ivy weaving in and out of the seducing fragrance of subdued lavender.
He dared not dream of her, not even his dreams were safe from the prying eyes of the scientists? reaching into control and suppress. He would lie in bed, writhing, burning, throbbing, not allowing himself to wander off into the trap of being caught dreaming anything outside the prescribed Guidelines for Appropriate Oblivion, thus breaching all laws he himself worked so hard to enforce upon others. His imagination was his only refuge, because no one could impeach you for remembering. Even if those were memories of things that never happened.
Joan. His lips moved, sucking on the decadence of that single syllable, stretching out the vowels into a prolonged sigh, the salacity of this lascivious moan sending pangs of revulsion down to his stomach.
You horny fuck, he thought. Is this what you think of when you're dying?
"Dying? Who said anything about dying?"
The voice, loud and shrill, thrust its way into his ears and he bolted upright with a jolt, only to be pushed down again by a hand whose size did not match its strength, its gnarly fingers resembling talons digging into his already sore chest.
Surely, he thought, this must be way outside the Guidelines. Someone must be in my dream with me.
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