#i never used such muted colours before i kinda like how murky she looks

[marciaillust]

I added some colours to her :)

[emily-charles]

My last nightmare: (January 10th, 2020)

(None of this is well-written or thought-out. There’s probably typos, or errors, but I wrote it out because my nightmares suck, and I was told once to record them. I wrote it out, still half asleep.) So I'm a black woman, with this amazing, springy, short curly hair. Personally, as a white gal, I'm not used to it, and I keep playing with it. It sounds stupid, but I've never been given that opportunity before. I'm beautiful (from my point of view, but 'I'/she doesn't think so as much). She is actually really soul crushing about how mean she is to herself. It hurts me to hear others think that way about themselves. But I know I do it too some days. She's stunning, but she thinks she's plain. 'Nothing much', as 'she' puts it. But that line between reality and the dream fade, and I'm her now. I'm a black, lesbian woman, who's dating and living with a Latina woman, named Marie. She has this beautiful skin. It looks like dark honey and feels like silk, and I know every inch of her body. Her long, straight hair, it almost reaches her waist, and she's been growing it out for years. She told me so. A whole history between us, and I don't know where it came from, but I love her and I know it. I met her at a local bar. Just by a single glance. A 'save me' glance. I'd never been a 'love at first sight' kinda gal, but I fell in love with her the minute she smiled at me, and twisted away from some 'I bet I can make you like dick' dude. I had come up to monitor the issue as it seemed this beautiful chick was getting harassed. I walked over, straightened my shoulders to give off a more powerful vibe, and threw my arm around her, smiled sweetly at her, and said, "Is this idiot being a douche canoe?" She leaned over, and kissed me abruptly. The men hooted and hollered, then she turned around, grabbed his beer from his hand, and poured it over his fucking head. We both got kicked out of the bar, but I'd never laughed so hard. It was worth it. We spent the rest of the night, chatting in some cheap-ass pizza place, sipping from her 'hidden flask' and sharing a slice of pizza that was basically a quarter of a pizza. She's fucking stunning, she smart, with the sharpest wit I'd ever experienced, and I love her. I love her so much. I'm going to marry her, when the law passes in America, and I know it. She works as an RN at our nearest hospital. She'd moved here for the work (I didn't know nurses had to move to find work? Is that true? I'm still weirded out by this after waking) -- so she meets a bunch of new people, and I'm one of the first she meets just by this bar-experience. I remember everything about her. I remember her name was Marie Anne Juarez. She was disowned by her family when she came out of the closet, and things had been tough for her for a long time. She worked two jobs, and occasionally a part-time gig on top when the other two weren't enough. After she saved up, she put the money into school, rented the tiniest room she could find, and found a better full-time job. Somewhere else with 12-hour shifts, and worked her ass off. She'd felt alone for a long time, but she found her relationships with another tight knit group of LGBTQ through me. When we first met, she was quiet at the beginning of the night-- but sassy as fuck. Once she opened up, I knew those small smirks/grins, and smiles led to sass and funny comments. We were both somewhat sarcastic, and we both giggled over a lot of the same things. When she started her RN career, she worked 16-hours straight, but she never complained (do nurses really work that long?? Like holy shit...). I lived with her later on. I remember her panties. How she liked booty shorts, (my favourites were her black with neon orange elastic) and lace thongs specifically (Easter colors always outside of a handful of black pairs). How pink and this mustard yellow were her favourite colours. They matched her skin tone, nearly black eyes, and dark hair. I remember where the window in our bedroom was. Our queen-sized bed. I remember that she always blow-dried her hair straight even though it was wavy to curly. How much she loved the 'natural' look when it came to make-up except for liner and mascara. Maybe that's a nurse thing. No time for anything else. One night I came home from work, made a quickie stupid dinner because I beat her home, and she didn't show. The police called me, and said she was at X-hospital. God forbid I remember what hospital it was in my dream. I went immediately. They wouldn't let me see her, even though I was her 'emergency contact'. They said, "Only family." And I wasn't 'family'. I was her fucking girlfriend. And even if I was her fianceé, I was female, and oh my gosh, the scandal! Even though her family hadn't talked to her in years -- and no 'family' would be coming to visit -- I had to wait outside. I wasn't allowed to see her. When she finally walked out she was wearing hospital clothing -- they'd taken her clothing as 'evidence'. She told me everything then. In a quiet voice, and without seemingly to stop and breathe -- all at once, and just once, she told me everything. All while avoiding my gaze, and refusing my touch -- I can’t hold her hand, I can’t brush too close, or make direct eye contact with her. She had been walking, in her scrubs to her car to the employee parking lot (all under video surveillance), and was sexually assaulted as she was unlocking her car. He raped her between her car, and the car parked next to her. When she tried to resist, he strangled her, and smashed and dragged her face across the concrete. She had bruises around her neck, stitches along her brow and side of her cheek, and butterfly tape across her nose. She told me what happened, and after that -- she refused to speak of it again. She told me that she just needed time. She was given 'leave' from the hospital for 'health reasons' and she stared at the wall or muted television most of the time. I never questioned her, but I begged her to talk to me sometimes. After awhile, when she let me, I held her. I spooned her, and she didn't flinch from my touch; she just clutched me tighter. Enough to leave half-moon marks in the tops of my hand from her nails. And sobbed occasionally. She dry-heaved occasionally, or went on benders trying to clean everything. Anything to dismiss the memory, I suppose.

I would have to stop her at 3AM from doing the dishes. Clutching her to me, and dragging her into my lap to get her to stop, and she would get angry and burst out crying. Or sometimes she just hiccupped and stared at nothing. Sometimes she struggled to get away so she could keep cleaning. I kept us afloat. I knew she was going through bad shit. I was there. I saw it first hand. Tucked in bed with her, fully clothed -- this wasn't the time to ask questions. Just be there for her, and do what I can. I just wanted to glue all the broken pieces back together. I still had to work, and leave her alone all day to keep us afloat, and I hated leaving her. I would text her throughout the day, reminding her how much I loved her. How amazing she was. I came home two months after the assault, and the sink was on. I could hear it through the thin walls of our small house while I was unlocking and pushing open the door of our side entrance. The sink was running full blast, and I was so confused. The sink was overfilling. Did she fall into a depression sleep while doing the dishes? There was water all over the floor. I yelled her name, and stepped forward to turn off the tap but never got to it. Our kitchen was small. A small island of grey/white/black splatters that matched the surrounding counters. But as I stepped in, keeping my sneakers on to avoid the water, I noticed the water had a weird amber/brown rust colour to it the closer to the sink I got. I stepped in further, and saw her. Laying flat. On the ground. She was still in her scrubs even though she hadn’t been to work in months. She said they were comfortable and reminded her of a better time. They were blue. At least... mostly. But the water... the thin layer of water around her was brown. Reddish brown. It was only then, I noticed she was injured. A angry red slice splitting her skin goes from the inside of elbow straight to the palm of her hand. A paring knife was nearby her other hand. The water has collected around her. It must've been hot or warm at one point -- but it's still running now, and absolutely ice cold now, and her lips are a bluish tinge. I pulled myself away from my inner thoughts, scream her name, and fall on my knees in the murky water. My thoughts aren't clear. I shake her -- reach to check for a pulse -- and there's nothing. I can't find a pulse. I see movies all the time where they say to put your fingers, but I can't find it. I scream in her face to wake up. I scream her name. I'm not at all ashamed to say I pimp slapped the hell out of her while screaming, "WAKE UP!" Nothing worked in the first literal ten seconds -- so I ended up calling 9-1-1. No idea how I grabbed, or dialed my cell phone, but it happened. I scream for an ambulance, say someone's dying, and give the address. I shouted her name, leaning over her chest to listen. A rattle, a wheeze.... Anything. I take a breath to try calm myself so I can hear over the sound of my blood rushing in my ears, and try again. I tie the nearest tea towel around her arm as tight as I can. I tell her she’s not allowed to leave. I tell her I love her. I tell her to wake up.  I tell her I won’t let her leave. For some reason the whole experience is as slow as quicksand. Slowly sucking the everything out of you before drowning you. I slap Marie again like she owes me money -- like I'm actually angry and not terrified. Then I straddle her hips and push on her diaphragm, and ribs together. I keep screaming at her, and there's wetness on my face. I think it's either from the floor, or I'm crying. She briefly smiles despite the pain I must be causing her, and even though she tries to open her eyes -- they open sluggishly, and the lower part of her eyes show. White and the dark bluish-grey ring of her dark like night eyes. She mutters, "Love you. Sorry." Then her eyes and lungs close. I have heard the goddamn death rattle, and I've ignored it. The water surrounding us looks like it had been soaking in a bath-bomb made of a brick. I am focused and pressing on her chest, and I hear her exhale with each push, but aside from that, I hear nothing except the sink still running that I’ve forgotten to turn off. I have to breathe into her in order to get her chest to inflate. The EMTs come out of nowhere. I am shoved away abruptly -- I am furious, delerious, fighting them -- trying to keep the rhythm of her heart and lungs -- but I am pulled away by two cops after that. It appears 9-1-1 sends cops with the ambulance no matter where they go. I struggle against them, I yell things like, "She's asthmatic! Allergic to cats, cashews, peanuts, but we don't keep that shit in our house!" The cops take me with them to the hospital in the backseat like some bad guy, clothes and hands still drenched and soaked in her blood and the dirty water. I'm not allowed to ride in the ambulance with her. I'm asked so many questions, but I'm not "family". Even though I'm her emergency contact, I can't do anything. The triage nurses insist on me waiting in the waiting room. No one seems to listen to me. They tell me to wait. I'm not allowed in. I'm not 'family’. I wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. When the doctor comes out, his face gives everything away with a gentle shake of his head. I burst into tears, and I start telling him, "No. NO. No, no, no," before he can say anything. I wake up, and I'm crying in my sleep.