Ashes of the Forgotten Queen

I woke up drenched in sweat.

A brief glance at the clock on my bedside table informed me that it was 4 am. I was breathing heavily and loudly, the only sound that disturbed the silence of the night around me. I caught a glance of my reflection in the mirror opposite my bed and cringed. 

My almost white hair was stuck to my sweaty forehead, looking ghostly and lifeless. My cheeks were burning up, and my eyes were bulging out, their deep, dark color almost reflecting the horrors of the previous nightmare. 

This wasn’t the first time I found myself awake, heart beating fast, mind swirling with images of fire and blood, and deafening screams echoing in my ears. I have been having the same nightmare for two years now, and to say that I was getting sick of it would be an understatement. 

It was a lot worse two years ago. I would wake up screaming and crying in the middle of the night, and my parents would rush into my room, assuring me that everything was okay and that it was just a nightmare. 

But somehow, it felt real. I would see myself backed up in a corner in a poorly lit alley, surrounded by grim-looking faces slightly covered by black hoods. 

I would scream «How could you?» as I recognize a familiar face- a girl- right before she stabs me, her devilish grin sending shivers down my spine, and I would wake up, crying, screaming, sweating. 

The details were blurry, like a memory of a time long gone, but the emotions of shock, betrayal, and pain were running strong.

I looked around me, knowing well that I was never going back to sleep now. As my nerves calmed down and my heart beat slowed, I decided to go down to the kitchen and make myself something to eat. 

I always crave something sweet when I’m sad or distraught, as if the sugar in my system feels like a warm, tight hug comforting me. I went down the two flights of stairs as sneakily as I could manage, trying so hard not to wake my parents up again. 

The nightmare made them worry a lot, and so as time went by, I stopped sharing my horrific night visions with them and turned to food instead. My mother would sometimes find me in the kitchen –no matter how silent I tried to be and I would just pretend to be getting a midnight snack, assuring her that everything was fine and that she should go back to sleep. Everything was far from fine, of course, but there was no need to ruin her night as well.

Once I was in the kitchen, I headed for the fridge without turning the lights on, you can never be too careful when your parents have incredibly strong senses, and got the vanilla ice cream out of the freezer.

 Fetching a bowl, the Nutella and the peanut butter jars from the cupboard, I set out to make my favorite dessert slash comfort food. Several scoops and a sprinkle of funfetti later, and my masterpiece was ready. 

I eyed my bowl half in adoration, half in disappointment, wondering when life got so stressful to the point I’d find myself awake in the darkest hours of the morning. I couldn’t remember a time when I would sleep through the night, and I would often ask myself if there was ever a time when I wasn’t a gigantic ball of stress, anxiety, and night terrors.

 I was in the middle of cleaning up everything when my spoon fell, and the marbled floor got a taste of my fine delicacy. As if this night wasn’t annoying enough already. I sighed as I grabbed a cloth from the counter, setting out to wipe up my mess, when all of a sudden the cloth caught on fire. 

I yelped in surprise and threw the cloth on the floor. How did that happen? I wasn’t using the stove or a match, and there was absolutely no fire source of any kind around. I was about to stomp the fire with my foot when, just as suddenly as it started, it flickered out.

“What on God’s green earth was that?” I exclaimed louder than I should have, still too dazed to make sense of the situation.

“What was what?”

“Mom.” I jumped. For all my efforts to not attract attention, I have failed, and my mother woke up. She stood at the door, looking poised in her pink, silky robe. 

Her fiery red hair was swept up in a classy chignon that looked far too complicated for this early hour of the morning. It was only 4 am, but my mother looked as beautiful and as composed as ever.

“Lilith, honey, what’s wrong? Why are you up so early?” She came closer, eyeing me carefully. She glanced over at the counter, took account of my late-night snack, and turned back to me. “Are you having nightmares again?” She asked softly, wrapping her arms around me.

“No, mom, I’m fine. I was just hungry.” I lied. I was honestly far from fine. Between the nightmare and the freak accident earlier, I was sure I was losing my mind, but I didn’t want to bother my mom, especially since I couldn’t even begin to explain what happened.

“Are you sure, sweetie? You know you can talk to me about anything.” She smiled at me, a warm, comforting smile that managed to always made me feel better, and I smiled back.

“I know, Mom. You have nothing to worry about.” I grabbed my bowl and headed to the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to enjoy this in my room and go back to sleep. Goodnight, Mom, I love you.”

“I love you too, Lilith.” She let out as I headed back up the stairs and back to my room.

Alone again, my mind started to race. There was no possible explanation for what happened with the cloth, and if I told anyone about it, they’d simply think I was losing my mind. 

How else would you explain a kitchen cloth catching on fire all by itself? I set the bowl on my desk, suddenly feeling queasy, and sat on my bed. My usually bright golden walls looked dark and somber, a perfect reflection of the night outside and the mood inside. 

Flashbacks from the nightmare, combined with the fiery cloth, invaded my thoughts, and even as I closed my eyes, they refused to go away. I gave a last regretful glance towards my sweet treat, too dizzy and confused to enjoy it.