When I first began having this dream, I thought this meant that one of my parents had been bad, deep down, and I’d never known about it. I put a lot of stock into dreams. I know that they mean significant things. So this thought, that one of my parents might be a troubled dark soul, weighed heavily upon me for quite a while. But then I realized that I had the meaning wrong.
Because even though this dream is set on the day of their funeral, my parents aren’t here. They were cremated. They were never in caskets at the front of a church.
This dream isn’t about them.
It’s about the doubts that were formed in me the day they died, the doubts about the value of life itself. Life seems pointless if it is all for nothing; if everything ends in a fiery car crash, leaving only sadness behind.
It is one reason I grew so adamant about being an artist. I wanted to create beauty to cancel out the ugly. Yin and Yang. Dark and light. Good and evil.
My conscious self doesn’t dwell on this stuff anymore. But my subconscious has issues. And it clearly hasn’t settled them yet, thus the recurrence of this confusing dream. And to be honest, I haven’t completely figured it out yet.
What I can see so far is that life consists of good and evil, black and white. And everything in between is a struggle for dominating the other. Life is a struggle.
And I hate that it all ends with nothingness. That one day, you simply aren’t here anymore. No more smiles, no more tears, no more anything.
Poof.
Lights out.
I sigh and run my finger along the black casket. The one housing the evil. It’s beautiful, even as it is bad. But as my arm moves, I catch sight of something different. Something that has never been here before.
I have a jagged scar on my hand, right where my index finger meets my thumb.
An X just like Pax’s.
I startle and stare at it, noting how it is old and thick, just like his. In the sunlight, it seems sinister somehow, although I can’t imagine why. It’s just a scar. A hundred different things could have caused it.
But why is it on me?
I turn my hand in the light, rotating it in the sun, illuminating how it is as familiar on me as it is on him, as if I had worn it for years. As though it is comfortable on me, as though it is marking me for something.
X marks the spot.
I have no idea what it means. But something in my subconscious wants me to think on it, that much is true. There is something for me to ponder, something for me to solve. But I don’t know what.
I shake my head and walk to the white casket. What I do know is that I have to finish this out so that I can wake up. So, I carefully open the lid of the good casket, exposing a million glistening sunbeams.
They shoot from the casket and merge with the light pouring in from the window. The rays are beaming, sparkling, radiant. I stand in them, bathing in the warmth and the goodness, absorbing the light.
And when I wake up, I know I will feel that energizing radiance for some time to come. It’s my subconscious way of boosting myself up. It’s how I coped with the grief after my parents died.
It is how I cope with any kind of uncertainty now.
And judging from the scar on my hand, I’m guessing that it is Pax’s appearance in my life that has given my subconscious pause. He is what has triggered this dream once again.
While I can’t figure much of this dream out, at least that fact can only mean one thing.
I’m more interested in Pax than I would like to admit.
With a sigh, I roll out of bed and pad down the hall in my pajamas. There’s no way I’m going back to sleep now. Annoyed with myself for allowing a strange man inside my head, I bang everything around as I move around the kitchen. It doesn’t help my annoyance, but it does serve to wake me up.
Thankfully, my day passes quickly. After four cups of strong coffee, I venture into the shop and visit with friendly customers. When business slows down, I work on a new painting…something bright and cheerful. Like always, a good piece of art lifts me out of my funk.
I am humming as I duck out of the shop to grab a sandwich for lunch. As I pause to lock the door, I notice Pax’s black car parked on the street twenty yards from my shop. My head snaps up and I stare at it, my fingers frozen. He’s not in it. I don’t know if I am relieved or not.
“Looking for someone?”
Pax’s voice is right behind me.
You’ve got to be kidding me. This is too coincidental. I slowly turn to find myself face to face with the very man who has invaded my thoughts. Pax smiles, a slow panty-dropping grin.
“Are you stalking me again, Miss Hill?” He cocks an eyebrow.
My heart hammers.
“What?” I choke out. “This is my shop.”
Pax shrugs. “And that’s my car. You were staring at it like you were hoping I would get out of it.”
I’m guilty of that. I can’t say a word in my defense. Instead, I stare at him like an idiot.
“What are you doing downtown?” I finally manage, changing the subject.
“I don’t cook,” he explains. “I’m making a food run. The bar down the street makes good burgers.”
“Oh,” I answer dumbly. “That’s what I’m doing too.”
He lifts his eyebrow again.