There were basically three colors: black, white and scarlet.
The black of a borderless darkness.
The white of a gleaming edge held in pale, transparent fingers, of teeth revealing in maniac laughter.
And the scarlet of bodily fluid passionately spreading like roses in bloom. Soon, the scarlet burned up the black and engulfed the white, claiming its place as the prime color.
There were basically two kinds of sound: the sound of iron edge entering soft flesh and insane laughter.
And there was silence.
There was but one motion. And that single motion was the key to all colors and sounds.
He saw himself in that landscape of black, white and scarlet, causing the sounds, repeating the motion. He saw them all with his calm eyes.
When all ceased, he opened his eyes again.
He needed not to put a hand to his chest; his heart was serene as the soft, yellow light from the bed lamp. He needed not to change his garments; they were not soaked in cold sweats. He needed not to check the body beside; she was still in her peaceful sleep, her body warm, her breath steady.
She was safe and sound, his wife. Though he killed her every night.
Tonight was the 24th time.
The first time it came, he woke up with heavy pants, raging heartbeats and soaked garments. He frantically search for her, found her and hugged her in utmost relief.
He was terrifyingly happy that it was only a nightmare.
He loved her right? Loved her so much that he could die for her. Why would he ever dream of murdering her?
Maybe he should really stop staying late to watch those cheap slasher movies.
The 8th time it came, though with wild heartbeats, he no longer felt the urge to check whether she was safe. Disturbing as it was, he no longer found it appalling; he was only confused by it repetition.
He stumbled across a Freud’s book about dream and spent a day absorbing every details. That night, after waking from his usual nightmare, his nerves experienced calmness after several strained nights.
That was the 12th time.
The 14th, he woke up with a fright. His forehead sweated, his palms cold as he realized he was not frightened by the dream but rather by an unexpected excitement that came with it. When he glanced at his wife’s sleeping figure, he imagined her soft body shaking violently under his grip as he brought the blade to her bosoms with a sinister smile.
He threw away that Freud book the next day yet its content remained unshaken in his head.
The 17th and 18th time, he could not fight back the smile he uncontrollably had on his lips when he recalled the feeling of killing her.
He no longer gave himself a slap for his morbid thoughts.
They had a fight over some trivial matters, as he thought. She said he was acting strange, different. He asked her how strange, how different. She couldn’t answer. In the end, she said through her sobs that she no longer saw the man who loved and married her, that she only saw a person who held a grudge for her. He stayed mute to her conviction. Couldn’t deny it. Didn’t deny it.
The nights onward, he woke up with a terrible resentment that it was only a dream.
The thought of the knife became his heavy shackle. He decided that tonight, he’d free himself from it. By giving it what it was yearning for.
According to Freud’s theory, all dreams serve to fulfill the dreamer’s unconscious desires (often sexual, but not always).