For some unknown reasons, I often encounter murder dreams.
Sometimes I dream about chopping the pretty head of a pretty girl with a giant axe. Sometimes I dream about mutilating a handsome-looking lad until he’s but a mess of minced flesh and smashed bones. Sometimes I dream about pinning a lovable child on the floor like some butterfly in a collection. Sometimes I dream about burning virgins on stake.
And at the end, always, I see myself with a twisted smile.
The contents of the dreams, all gruesome and vivid, vary but the feelings after waking up remain the same. A tinge of satisfaction. A hint of delight. But soon they fade, replaced a giant wave of guilt.
Many a time I ask Him for my mind to be emancipated from those devil’s thoughts. Silence is my only answer.
It’s a charming woman with a head of gold I see this time. Her neck is pale and slender as a swan’s and it’s held easily between my robust fingers. Feebly she struggles against my grip, her red nails scratching the skin of my left forearm.
But it’s no avail. Her fate is sealed. I know.
I wake up and effortlessly push the disturbing dream to the back of my head. I’ve learnt to allow those dreams to bother me no longer. As I put on my cassock and wear my rosary around my neck, I am the faithful servant of God, nothing like the warped murderer in my dreams.
But it’s strange. The skin of my left forearm is marred by a few scratches. I must have been careless the day before, I guess.
I see a mob on the way to my church. It seems a murder happened overnight. A young and charming woman was brutally strangled to death on her way home.
“Jesus Christ! How terrible!”. I mumble and cross myself. “May the poor soul go to heaven.”
The body of the unfortunate victim is carried off by the police. As they pass by, I spot a glint of gold under the white blanket.
It looks familiar. I wonder where I have seen that color.