The dream slips a knife in; the pain so real her eyelids slam open wide.
Her heart races as she recalls what she just saw.
Excitement and joy mixed together into childlike giddiness, at her inclusion in the planning and execution of their plans. After what seems like years of waiting, she's thrilled to be able to participate in the activities of her people. Finally feeling like she's equipped to do so, assuming that these are the things that guarantee her acceptance into this group of people she trusts.
Little snippets flash that don't make any sense, but she pays them no mind.
They arrive together, the thunder of their horses filling the air, breaking the predawn silence. She barely notices that half the group peels away, going somewhere else that she can't see. Around a bend, through the trees; she doesn't know. She dismisses it as she follows the ones she's always associated with the most.
Parked, dismounted and now seated at the picnic table, the smaller group squares off at the table.
One hums with gaining intensity, one speaks with authority she'd never noticed before; not recognizing their tune or words. And one looks at her, as if waiting to speak to her. Her eyes have no time to look elsewhere before he slides across the worn smooth bench, leaning in to her in feigned intimacy, and whispers tenderly that she's not supposed to be there; a bullet from a silenced gun.
The shock of the betrayal knocks her into immediate action. She jumps back, nearly losing her balance while scrambling to gather her belongings in her retreat.
The rush of blood to her head intensifies the sounds entering her ears. She can hear them behind her, continuing as if now they can do what they came to do.
Her attention drawn away from the pain of the expulsion, now focused on her exodus. Trying to take everything in, she doesn't know where to go. She doesn't know where the rest of the group disappeared to, and rather than risk further embarrassment looking for them, she stoically gets on her ride, and drives away, trying not to notice the lack of response to her exit.
Laying in the dark, replaying the dream to the cadence of the beating pain in her chest, she ponders the solitude, in scenes just like the dream, played out over and over and over in her life.
She accepts, through tears, the Alone.
The tip of the knife came in the form of the one she's closest to, life to life, soul to soul. The tip of the knife was just a poke, the initial offense, slight pressure that breaks the surface, yet altering the surface forever.
The blade behind the point, however, slicing cleanly through flesh; made up of those she thought knew her, those she thought wanted her with them; opening the wound larger, pushing the pain in deeper.
But the blade, with its sharp point and double edged blade, is held together and driven by the molded and formed traditions of the lifestyles and cultures of her people; all people.
Just like church.
The unnoticed snippets and snapshots from the dream foretell how she wasn't really included from the beginning. A mistaken addition to a private email; the women peeling away from the men. It makes sense now.
It doesn't make any sense.
The acid of her tears forces her eyes shut as she retreats into the cave of her bed linens.
