Love's Assassin

It is a strange dream, recurring almost. Every night I stand in
exactly the same place, beside the stream. The water is clearly
deceiving; it renders you to believe it is the aftermath of rainstorms.
It is not. It lies. The water is darker than you are led to consider.
If you take just one step into it the mud will stir and you will find
your feet swallowed up.

It is here, by the water, I watch the world go by for what seems like
hours. I doze on the grass and watch the clouds up above dance to the
song of nature. Birds sing, bees buzz and the water trickles along its
path. Peaceful.

Then, just as it does every night, the sky becomes darker and from
nowhere appears masses of oak trees. They encage me and block the
sunlight that cascades across their branches. The stream continues to
flow but with a quickened, urgent pace, the whole atmosphere is
electric. My vision is restricted, my senses hazy. This is a dream yet
I am unaware I have crossed over from reality.

I am drawn closer to the water. A face stares back at me, memorable yet
unrecognisable. I dip my feet into the shallow water and then, in my
inappropriate shoes, drag myself along. Unprecedented, I follow my
impulse, compelled by a sensation of loss. My head is heavy and full of
sleep. I drop into the water, crawling along. The liquid that meanders
around my clenched fists is now red; blood red.

Strangely but surely I know who I am looking for. I wait to find him
floating, already dead.

But no, he appears before me, ironically as though out of a dream. A
gun is positioned in his right hand; blood trickling from his right
temple. His eyes are fixated on me with ultimate concentration. He is
in army clothes: large boots on his feet steady him, marks of
camouflage smudged across his face. He wears a smile, devious and
cunning, a side to him that is only vaguely familiar. He points the
barrel at me. I turn to look behind me as if in disbelief, perhaps even
looking for his real victim. She is not there.

Just the two of us.

Our eyes meet for a brief second, his fighting the battle of love and
hate. I bite my lip in anticipation. He breaks our eye contact and
looks down at the revolver. I doubt for a split second whether he has
the nerve. Hate wins and he shoots, once, twice, three times. The
volume of the fire penetrates my ears and the pressure of the bullet
shakes my body fiercely. I fall splashing into the water. It is now my
blood that stains the once pure water. My vision is blurred. I sweat,
tremble.

He pulls me into his knees and his hands almost cry for forgiveness;
yet he is not sorry. I place my own hands onto my chest and pull them
quickly away in massive pain. I am bleeding, swimming in my own blood.
He takes my hands and places them over the wounds, his hands press down
and I feel secure, alive. Their force weakens and he lets go, dropping
my limp body. I feel my hair float in the water. It is a drunken
feeling that absorbs me; I am completely out of control. I see his face
one last time.

Before I can distinguish the familiar features I am awake.

It is the middle of the night. I sit upright, confused,
bewildered.

My assassin lies next to me.