coke babies
The sun is hot on your back when you turn over.
It's strange, the sun hot, the same way it's strange that there's a bright pink sky-- must be something about an ionized atmosphere, different particles, maybe a red shift, the whole universe moving towards you-- but there's very little chance to decide what to do before things change, like always.
You just lie there, then, and let the world soak you in; smile, a little, as she stretches by your side, a bronzed goddess on the beach, her pale sweet form not disturbing your cliche in the slightest.
She's not dead, she's not dead, she's not dead -- a mantra that isn't serving well enough; today might be the day it fails.
She doesn't smile back, just tosses her hair a bit, proving your faith still holds. Blinks.
And that sigh of relief on your lips, it dies quickly as you look behind her, behold that vista, that awe inspiring beauty of mountains and plains and-- greenery, everywhere; this had to be a dream, a fantasy, any minute you'd both wake up and see the fire and brimstone again....
You wonder if the sky is pink because the smoke of burning bodies taints it, if the red you can just kinda see if you squint right is blood and pain and hunger, if the fires have eaten the sun -- but no, your back's going to peel in the morning, living proof; maybe the rest of it's going to be fine too.
Looking beside you again, she winks, points, and your eyes follow her finger-- a real fairy tale castle, like the ones in German tourist books that everyone raves over.
It looks funny, out here, misplaced - a stone wall castle among the little piles of sand, the blue of the waves and the pink of the skies; and you wonder, quietly, how come it doesn't look more surreal, far more impossible, if the Shifts have changed you in some way beyond the obvious, too.
You turn on your side, let cool damp sand fall off your skin in little trickles, watch her look that biggish piece of fairy tale over with appraising eyes -- she's changed more than anything, maybe, and you can't quite recall when it stopped being -- familiar.
Maybe she's just wondering about property rates in a day and age where buildings stand up and walk off, you think, who knows anymore, and when you move to kiss her it's -- more than anything -- to remind yourself that she still tastes the same.
"You're going to kill me," you tell her, or maybe the castle, and shake your head in some rueful amusement. She gives you an odd look.
"Are you feeling well?"
You fall back onto your back, think about the uneven tan you're gonna get from all this tossing, think about how you're not well at all, think about how it's really a kinda silly question and she wouldn't have thought to ask it once. "No. Let's go visit your castle."
She squints, watching the end of the rainbow or something you can't see; shakes her head once, no.
But now you've lost that strange and languid glow, and your back is going to peel in the morning, and you say, "What? What are you saying no to?" And don't sound quite like yourself.
Instead of answering, she says, "I'd love to see a unicorn."
You shrug. Stand up, pull her up besides you by the hand. She doesn't protest again.
~
Two hours of walking, and the two of you are still far enough off that the castle is bathed in a light blue mist, the bottom crags just barely visible through a thick soup of fog; a nice setting, nothing dark or grim or frightening-- something out of a story book about princesses.
You aren't really surprised when the road starts twisting off in weird directions, though, stretching sideways when the only destination visible is right in front of you -- and she doesn't seem all that surprised when you, true to the spirit of one too many cheesy movies, hoist your Lady up in a fireman's carry and step off the path, trudging through calf-high greenery, while she laughs a little breathlessly somewhere by your back and tells you that isn't romantic at all -- and, well, she might be right, since the fireman's carry part isn't usually a part of the cheesy movies ensemble.
She laughs, breathless, and traces the rainbow curves with her hands as you step through piles of blue flowers and what look-- faintly, their outlines blurring when you focus too long or too hard-- like pots of gold.
You almost expect the huge doors to swing open at your knock, and actually having to turn the handle brings you back to reality a little; no dream, just Shift land, and who knows what's behind those doors... you can't quite bring yourself to tense up.
She takes your hand, smiles at you; touches it, because she's always been the one with the faith, and maybe not that much has changed after all. Turns it.
The air, a little musty and smelling like mint again, whooshes out at you from behind the magestic wooden doors, ancient and reverent.
She laughs, a quiet sound, and tugs your hand to make you look at her, follow the line of her stretched arm. In the dark corridor inside, there's a unicorn.
"This shouldn't surprise me," you say, and she laughs again.
But it does.