The end of a long, exhausting day should have been my sanctuary, a time to escape life's relentless demands. Or so I thought.

But as I closed my eyes to embrace the coveted bliss of sleep, the son of a nightmarish demon, who I can only imagine is as unsightly as a duckling, invaded my precious rest. I'd toiled for hours on my canvas, crafted soulful songs, and tended to the bar patrons. I deserved an uninterrupted beauty rest, yet the specter of my nightly visitor refused to let me be.

For months now, these haunting dreams had robbed me of peaceful nights, and it was taking a toll on my health. Tonight, my dream was different, a hazy affair.

In a virginal, white wedding gown, I strode down the aisle, my heart pounding, towards a towering figure with jet-black hair and broad shoulders. He was clad in an expensive black Armani suit, and the setting was a grand, opulent parish adorned with glistening chandeliers. We were just five in that vast expanse: the priest, the groom, two enigmatic figures in suits, and me.

I felt a wave of panic wash over me. Why in the world was I partaking in a marriage ceremony in my slumber? I'd never even entertained the idea of getting married. The real me wanted to scream and flee this nightmarish vision.

For years, my dreams had featured me in a red rose field, racing towards a man whose back was always turned. He wore a blue suit, with another man at my side. But tonight, the dream shifted; I was becoming a bride. In another scene, we cradled a beautiful baby girl, her dark, curly hair mirroring mine and her forest green eyes reflecting the stranger in my dreams. It made no sense; why was I dreaming of a man when my contempt for them was unwavering?

"Chelsea, please come back home with me, baby. Camelia misses you, she needs her mother. I can't let you go after four years," the stranger pleaded, desperation etched into his face. I stared at him as if he'd grown a second head; he had to be insane, suggesting we were married. He needed psychiatric help.

The notion of Chelsea, marriage, and a child seemed as incongruous as a snowstorm in the Sahara. If I had indeed been married, why hadn't my aunt breathed a word about it?

Though this man clearly mistook me for his wife, I had to play along, for my own reasons. I couldn't promise to be a mother to his child or a wife to him. However, I could promise to wield his fortune for my treatment, to silence my overbearing aunt, and to leverage his fame for my burgeoning career. The thought flashed through my mind as I stared at the stranger seated across from me in the dimly lit restaurant.

 Enjoy reading.

I hope you will love this story as I have loved and cherished it for the past four years trying to get it together properly in my head; after my little sister explained a bedtime story to me and my brother during COVID.

It was the start of my inspiration.

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Xoxo

Bella Angel Douglas