Gray Stone

A cold gray stone lingers on damp moss, awaiting the arrival of something, I know not what. The wind groans mournfully through the swaying branches of the surrounding pine and cedar, brushing the woody scent across my shaken senses.

What is this place? Where have my dreams taken me?

I am barefoot, striding in cold steps across the rain-soaked ground. The storm has passed, but the dull gray sky lingers on, casting a stale, dreary shadow over the world. The air is cool and the wind bites through my thin white nightgown. I stop before the gray stone and stare at it. There is writing, but I cannot read it.

I am chilled. My physical body, yes, but a frozen touch lingers also in my pensive heart. I stand on the muddy turf before the stone, and I wait.

Twilight is creeping across the sky in muted tones. The gray lingers, darkening into charcoal as night settles upon my shoulders. The chill deepens, sinking slowly, gradually into the marrow of my bones. The wind is calm and wet, gusting at times to bring a sorrowful sigh to the evergreen trees that surround me. Moisture seems to hang in the air, as if uncertain whether to remain in the sky, or to fall to the ground.

And still I stand here, silent, waiting.

The cloud-laden sky becomes black, no merciful light emanating from either moon or star. The dark closes in around me and my vision is stolen away. I see nothing, not even the stone before my feet. And yet, somehow, I know that it is there. I feel it.

And still I stand, waiting.

The night passes slowly, and all sense of time is consumed by the ever-present feeling that something is coming. I ponder nothing. Thought seems alien and strange to me. I do not think, I merely absorb the frost that fringes the edges of my gown and the strands of my hair.

And wait.

An eternity passes, I live forever. I am only conscious, aware, existing. I feel no pain, no hunger, no fear or sadness. I feel only the frigid air embracing my lightly clothed form, the ice that lingers on my exposed skin, the wind that touches my face with its frozen, bony fingers, whispering of something unknown.

And I am waiting.

The cold gray hues of dawn begin to appear. The sun I cannot see, but instead its presence I can only assume from the gradual lightening of the atmosphere. I see frost on the still grass, the heavy branches of the trees, and my blue tinted skin.

I shall not be waiting much longer.

When the world is light enough to see clearly, something approaches. A small group of people, all dressed in insensate blacks and grays wind slowly through the surrounding gravestones, coming all from different directions, walking steadily towards me. They gather in silence round the stone by which I stand, their faces devoid of emotion or expression. They seem not to see me and I stand in silence.

Not a tear falls.

Behind the stone I am newly aware of a gaping hole, muddy brown in its freshness. Four strange men approach, carrying a large wooden casket. They lower it gently into the hole, leaving a portion of the lid open to expose the face of the pale corpse.

There is no yellow tint to the pallid flesh. The skin is perfectly white, its paleness a sharp contrast to the deep brown hair. The lips are blue and still, lifeless. The eyes are closed and the lashes lie untrembling on the colourless face. Her motionless body is lightly wrapped in a thin white gown.

I see myself in the placid face and I finally understand. There is no dream. Only death.

I close my eyes and fade silently into nothingness.