The Church Dream

This is an experiment in second-person prose, with which I have no prior experience. Not experimental in the classic sense, but it's all new to me. Click below to read it!

You open your eyes abruptly; the sudden influx of light is like a pail of cold water directly to your brain. A vaulted ceiling is far ahead of you (above you, you suppose belatedly, as you must be on your back). The light seems to be coming in from your left and right, filtered through some kind of colored glass. The dust motes dance through the air on swirling breezes, flickering through the spectrum of colors as they float through the tinted light. You blink a few more times; you can now make out the baroque reliefs carved into the dark wood of the ceiling and the pillars rising to meet it.

Slowly you sit up and as you do so you finally realize that you are in a cathedral. The long aisle of pews stands empty, but the altar and the sacristy are obviously decorated as for a funeral. No picture of the deceased stands by the heavy oaken casket, but flowers lay all around it. It looks like all of the flowers are white, but the sunlight coming through the stained glass paints them with a pastel palette.

You turn all about, inspecting the rest of the ancient church. The classically styled stained-glass windows do not depict Mary, Jesus or any recognizable disciples. Instead, they show a variety of men and women, broken, bloodied, dying, screaming in pain. The terrible scenes are made all the more disturbing by the vibrant colors of the stained glass. All of the victims stand on a bright blue background, their blood impossibly red and their tears as beautiful as diamonds. Where the doors should stand, there is only an empty wall, devoid of the engravings found in most of the rest of the wood around the church. No sources of light (other than the windows) are evident.

As you turn back toward the altar, you are startled to see a tiger lying on the casket. The huge cat's eyes are narrowed and he blinks too often, as though he is in great pain. His breathing comes in shallow, ragged pants. You begin to walk closer, despite the animal instincts commanding you to turn and flee. The tiger notices your movement and turns its face toward you. Without its head resting on its chest, you can see that it is wounded. Blood stains its white fur, the same unnatural ruby as that found on the windows. Its blood trickles over the casket slowly, dripping into beautiful floral patterns on the ground.

Without realizing it, you find that you have made it to the casket. The tiger's eyes have hooked onto yours, and it seems that neither can look away. The tiger breathes in slowly, holds it for a moment, and exhales again. He lifts one large paw drowsily and places it on your chest. With what seems like a great effort, he pushes gently on your chest....

And you wake up, staring into the blank, unblinking eyes of a predator.