Free Entwined by Elizabeth Marshall

revenge, death and envy. Yet at the same time, he delivers all three,” Angus’ words were sincere and heart-felt. I was bewildered, afraid, drawn to this character yet repulsed by him.
    “What does this have to do with me?” I shouted. The figure transformed into me again, but something was wrong. I glared in horror as I realized that the figure standing before me was my own dead body. The lifeless eyes gazed back at me. Her arm, covered in dead rotting flesh, reached out and grabbed my wrist as she leant over and whispered, “You must always keep with you that fate is never certain. Fate does not dictate our actions - our actions dictate our fate.”
     
    My eyes sprang open, fixing on the cream curtains at the bay window. I was cold, shivering, my face was wet with tears. I moved my eyes to where my husband should be, his pillows dented and the duvet creased where he had slept. “It was only a dream”, I whispered to the empty room.
    I craved freedom, fresh air, sunshine, even the sound of traffic was a welcome distraction. I needed to leave the house, needed to stimulate my mind beyond thoughts of pregnancy and motherhood. In a moment of rebellious abandon I chose to leave the house unaccompanied. Gathering my coat from the under-stairs cupboard and pocketing the front door keys, I headed off in the direction of the city library. At least there, I reasoned, I would be able to choose something to read that didn’t involve birthing, breathing, counting or cooking.
     
    I made my way cautiously down the icy stone steps of Skeldergate Bridge and followed the river into the city. It was a grey, cold, winter’s morning. I caught the chill of a breeze through my sweater and made the decision to buy a coat that would do up over my swollen belly. I wondered idly where the past few months had gone. The baby had grown heavy and the short walk had left me exhausted, out of breath and aching. My body had changed beyond recognition and I secretly looked forward to the day when it would become mine again. The dream returned to haunt me as a vision of Angus filling my mind. I jumped as someone bumped into me.
    “Sorry,” I muttered instinctively, but the man ploughed on rudely ahead. “Oh well, be rude then,” I hissed under my breath. “I don’t know why I bothered apologizing!” I said, raising my voice a tad, but knowing he was out of hearing range.
    As I watched him stride ahead, his long winter coat lapping mid way down his calves and his black hair pulled back from his face and held in place with a thin leather thong, I thought there was something vaguely familiar about him, and for a moment mistook him for my husband, but then dismissed the idea as ridiculous. I shook my head, annoyed at my paranoia, and took a few tentative steps forwards, but I was shaking and my heart thudded like a bass drum. It was the man from my dream, the man who was my husband – but wasn’t. The man with twisted features and a gaping hole where his eye should be. My eyes shifted nervously along the path. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, I turned to run home but paused. What I really wanted was my husband, my real husband. Not this contorted dream. With little conscious thought I drifted toward Ouse Bridge and the city, eventually finding myself walking through the door of the antique shop.
     
    “What the hell are you doing here?” Simon roared, as the bell above the shop door alerted him to my presence. His features personified the thunder that had just bellowed from his mouth and his eyes glared dangerously across at me. I hadn’t anticipated his reaction. Without warning, my eyes welled up and tears flowed freely down my face.
    I didn’t notice him move, but suddenly he was at my side, his strong arms around me, holding me, comforting me. I could hear his voice, tender and soft in my ears, his breath warm and gentle on my neck. The sting of his temper had gone but still I cried until my head ached and my cheeks stung from the tears.