Innocent touches become anything but as I search for relief.
A theory builds.
I may not be lucid, especially when the dream keeps coming back and replaying in a loop, but I can no longer deny that my body is demanding exactly this.
I lose touch—not with myself—but with reality as I let events unfold as they may and sink my own fingers inside me when the Horseman vanishes. My fingers move as his cock did. Filling the void when the Horseman departs. They also roam over flesh, mimicking his ghostly, large hands.
The need never vanishes. Each time I wake from the dream, I am left bereft.
Empty.
For hours, I surrender to delirious indulgence. The pleasure he wields so easily overtakes all else. A painful onslaught that douses the fever to a bearable degree. During each and every one of his visits, time loses all meaning, and desire runs rampant. I unravel again and again, under the Horseman and my own ministrations, even while prayers echo to the heavens from my mind.
God forgive me.
Holy mother, give me strength.
I know not what I do.
And yet, no matter how many times I bring myself to the peak and feel the absolute rush of oblivion, it’s never enough. My body starves. Pleads. Screams for more of it. More of him. Either of them—the Grand Minister or the Horseman.
Remaining empty is an unendurable and endless hell. One, I don’t know if I’d ever wake from.
I don’t just want the dream. My body demands this, to the point it bends and blends and breaks reality to make it real and possible.
Finally, I succumb to sleep.
When I wake, it’s from a peaceful and dreamless state of rest.
For a moment, I don’t move. The world is full of distant sounds, but also quiet in a way that breeds serenity into the stillness. It feels almost fragile. A cool breeze slips in through the cracked window, brushing across my bare skin. It carries the clean scent of pine and earth, a stark contrast to the stale air lingering in the room.
Somewhere beyond the walls, birds chirp in uneven bursts, as if fighting off the night drawing in.
My body still carries the fever’s aftermath. Limbs that once felt strong now tremble when I shift. Muscles ache as if I’ve run for miles, and I’m sore in unspeakable places. Even turning my head against the pillow pulls a quiet groan from my throat. Flashes of what I endured crawl through my foggy mind—all that occurred in the dreaded days before, and all I did to relieve the ache.
The fever’s grip over me was absolute. Both molten and volcanic. So intense that no amount of self-pleasuring could soothe it. It felt unending at times and unbearable at others. The agony nearly had me begging for the fire to simply consume me. At one point, I thought it would burn me alive. The indescribable carnality of it took me to the highest highs I’ve ever experienced, and still, the thought of reliving it is inconceivable.
I don’t know exactly how many days I lost, only that in my haze-induced state, the sun and moon rose and fell multiple times.
The air feels cooler now, thinner, and based on the dim amber light filtering through the curtains, I believe it’s near dusk.
Though it’s a struggle, I peel myself from the mattress and begin gathering the bedding. Each bend pulls at sore muscles. Each breath feels deeper than my body wants to allow. I dress with stiff fingers, grab the cleaning supplies, and walk down the hallway on shaking legs.
The breeze greets me fully as I step out of my front door, threading through my loose hair. The sky is washed in fading gold, and deep shadows build within the denser parts of the woods.
My stomach grumbles as I make my way toward the stream that funnels into the nearby lake, but I ignore it. Washing my sins away first takes precedence.
Crouching at the water’s edge, I plunge the sheets beneath the surface. The cold bites instantly, numbing my fingers as I scrub the evidence from the fabric. The rhythmic motion steadies my breathing. I move to my nightgown next, working at it until my knuckles are raw and stinging. My own brand of punishment for the indulgence I gave in to.
When I’m finished, I carry them both around back and hang them on the clothesline. The damp fabric snaps lightly as the wind catches it.
Minutes later, at the lake, I wade in without hesitation. I release the basket that I’ve brought with me, full of my supplies, to float on the surface. Then I quickly submerge myself in the freezing stillness.
The cold is a shock to my system, but one I welcome, because it grounds me to the present. When I rise, I sweep my hair away from my face, then reach for the soap. With it, I scrub my skin until every inch is red and as sore as the rest of my body.
I lather my hair next and pull a comb through the worst of the tangles with slow, deliberate strokes. It needs cutting, but I don’t have the energy for that today. Even twisting it into a loose braid is about all I can manage. It’s more taxing than it should be.
Once dry and dressed again and back on dry land, worry quickly settles in for the animals I’ve left unattended. Many likely suffered while I lay helpless, with no food or water, so I head back toward the house to check on them to see how they’ve fared.
