Symphony of Lilacs

44. Red Wine, Not Blood

I always thought of dreams as escapes from reality. As if they were the way of one’s brain to console us, to beguile us. Even while watching them, they felt too illustrious to let myself sink into them. At least that is what was my opinion about dreams till I found myself here.
Rain patters outside, the fire crackling along it. A boy sits alone, staring at the flames.

A boy with the same golden hair as me. Though, the numbness of his face has washed away any warmth, has washed away any sign of spirit. Like my reflection in the godforsaken window.  

That was so many years ago…

Hurried footsteps in the corridor echo, followed by a man with the colour hair as the fire.

Father seems more younger, straighter even more than he is now. His eyes narrow at seeing nineteen year old me, before sighing. “Matthew,” he says.

Both my younger self and I turn towards his voice, suddenly alert.
He isn't wholly me, only an extension of who I was. However I stay in the corner, witnessing an old wound coiling and uncoiling again.

Father walks over to the fireplace, to where my younger self is sitting. The latter stands, but makes no comment.

Father puts a hand on younger Matthew's shoulder. The boy glances at the gesture before meeting his father's eyes.
“For how long do you plan on staying like this?” Father pulls away his palm, glancing at the flames in the fireplace.

“I…” The boy runs a hand through his hand. "You know what he was like... what he meant..."

Before he can say anything else, Father shakes his head.
“No matter what, Matthew, William was still our family's doctor's son. Nothing more,” Father says, the boys cringes at the blunt use of his— William's— name.
Father bends down to stroke the fires, poker in hand. The flames swirl and screech an ungodly hiss. The boy opens his mouth...

No... no, it's happening again...

“Then what… what did you do when Uncle Wulfric...” No...

Father flings the poker into the fireplace— the railing rattles and screams— a few embers flying out onto the carpet. Both the boy and I jump back, even though only a single ember burned us. The both of us shake our heads, mirroring each other. He doesn't say it, but I can hear it, hear the boy's words echoing in my head, repeating a thousand fold. No... no, he wouldn't touch me... He's my father...

"Control yourself, Matthew. Control." Father leaves the poker lying wasted on the carpet, before pulling himself out of the room. "Be grateful you have your university, your work, to go back to. It will help you." His voice shifts, an almost soft tone before disappearing all together.

Clouds envelope the room, turning me upside down. I go round and round and round to the point I can only think about sprils and coils and nothing more.
They do not disappear till a new scene unfolds.

Father sits in one of the chairs in the parlour room, looking even younger than before. Somewhere near my own age. And physically looking exactly like Henry, except for the red hair. What unnerves me is the faintness of clouds within this heated room, and that— somehow— I'm perfectly stable on my feet.

I run a finger along my collar, a thin bead of sweat protruding.

Father runs a hand through his hair— at the same time I do— two women walking out of the parlour.

A man with raven hair and a ghastly pallor stands up.
“I think it is time for my departure, as well,” he sighs

But is stopped by my father’s words and his hand on the man's elbow. “I still have so many matters to discuss with you, Dannoso.”