DREAMS only occur in the world of reality, if one believes in them. As we sleep, our minds stay awake causing us to experience events unimaginable to happen when we are conscious. Some believe in dreams. They are sometimes memories that have happened in the past, may happen in the present or are to come in the future.

Dreams inspire poets and writers; for each dream has a story. It certainly was the case for the lonesome teenager, Miley Denise Whiteflower. Her dreams occurred on a regular basis and it was always the same dream.

Imagine a forest, shadowed by an eternal grey sky, weeping willows and an eerie echo of neglected spirits of the past. In that forest, Miley finds herself in the centre, listening to the owl’s cooing sensation and the sound of her own footsteps on the rough soil. It’s only a dream, she thought, strolling down a narrow path that exposed an ivory glow at the end. She counted each step carefully; putting in time to think of whether she was heading towards an omen or a positive sign. ‘Is someone there?’ she would call, feeling her own voice travel back to her. As she is walking, she notices that every tree she passes by has its own significant tale to tell. One would bellow a young woman pleading for help, whilst another may have horrific screaming as though it came from a banshee of some sort.

She reaches her destination and feels a sense of relief. She’s in a garden. It exposes flowers dying on a wall, eroded statues and a picture carved on a catacomb‘s door. An angel is weeping sorrowfully, as a child is taken away from her by a dragon with several heads. Miley looks away. She hears someone approaching, but is too afraid to figure out who it may be. ‘Come to me, my long-lost queen,’ the voice implores in the darkest expression heard by man.

Promptly, the teenager awakes from her slumber.

Her room was silent. Silent enough to hear her mother singing Hotel California by the Eagles. Across from her bed was a small jewellery box, which played all the lullabies she learned growing up. The exterior was of varnished oak with black ink outlining an Asian palace. The withered gold lock once had a small engraving of her mother’s name before marriage: Grace Nolan. Beside the box was her favourite thing in the whole world. It was her little reminder of why she was still alive. Grabbing it firmly in her hand, she carried it back to her bed, looking at her reflection staring back at her. It was her bloodstained knife. She never shared it with anyone, which made it seem unnecessary to wash. Her first time cutting was still evident on the blade. It had turned to a dark red with a tint of brown running through it. Every time she injured herself, the memory of the recurring dream fades from her thoughts until the next night. However, it seemed to hang this time.

The knife felt good against her skin. It drew blood lightly on her thigh, swimming from out the wound and onto her purple knickers and downward as far as her knees, which were covered by her jeans. All she wanted was to see who was calling her, but that wasn’t even granted. The blade went in for a deeper slice. She winced with a flicker of a tear streaming down her face. It always seemed to make Miley somehow better. Being a lonely teenager, self-mutilation was her only source of company. No one she knew liked poetry, rock music or shared a slight interest in art.

She had known this since the time she started school. Girls played with Barbie dolls and the boys played with the army men in the football pitch. In contrast, Miley sat under the chestnut tree reading stories by the Grimm Brothers, Lewis Carroll and Dr. Seuss. She longed to be the characters in those stories. They all went through a terrifying plot but have a happy ending followed close by. Miley endured around the plot each day. It was though the “happily ever after” never existed. Her all-time favourite story was Beauty and the Beast. She believed in finding an element of true beauty and innocence in all creatures. In fifth class, she was suspended for a week, after arguing with the teacher that Charles Manson is a human like everybody else, no matter what his crime was about. In first year, she earned herself two weeks of detention when she brought in The Silence of the Lambs to the school’s book club, claiming it to be the best example of justice and philosophy.

Pulling the blade away from her flesh, she exhaled a sigh of relief. A rueful laugh danced out of her mouth, noticing the damage. Closing her eyes, the thought of death seemed smart. She had nothing to live for and no one would miss her. ‘I wish I was dead,’ she grunted, pressing her knuckles into the latest scar. Nothing’s gonna change the world she thought, knowing that Marilyn Manson’s songs would lighten the indication of suicide. It always did.

Come to me, my long-lost queen, ricocheted as though the person was present. It actually sounded like the voice was very close. Almost as if the person was either lying on top of her or beside her. And in addition, when that happens, your mind plays tricks. There was a sensational feeling of the hands touching her torso very lightly, manoeuvring north, where the fingers would press down hard on the pierced lip. The cold breath the person had to offer first hit the lip ring and then the orifice of her delicate mouth with a sinister kiss. Her eyes flung open with a scream…


Miley, her parents and younger sister, Lux, lived in Waterford City. The house was situated on a long hill with no intention to communicate with the rest of the town. From her bedroom window, Miley had a view of her large garden. It had a small shed, a broken swing and a pond with no fish. There was no grass, nor was there any soil. It simply had white gravel, taking away the natural beauty Miley wanted to be inspired by for her poetry.

The walls of her bedroom were a dark purple but were covered by Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Slipknot and Marilyn Manson posters. Clothes swarmed her floor and five cats strolled across the shelves, whilst her bed propped itself underneath the window. It had a Native American quilt from the Cheyenne tribe, a Hello Kitty pillow and her favourite teddy bear, which hid her only magazine of dark poetry. It was an average room to Miley‘s likings.

However, the room was tainted with nightmares and insanity since Miley turned twelve. She, even to this day, can recall the four hours of her life that was taken away from her due to her father’s punishment. Dirty girl: those words haunted her mind every time she glanced over at the white wardrobe.

‘I like you Miley,’ whispered Malachi, the local Nigerian boy. His lips gently placed themselves on Miley’s, causing butterflies to rise in her stomach. They were fond of each other, like any two innocent children would be.

Her father’s fingers dug into her visible shoulder, producing a dent on the delicate skin. She didn’t look behind to see him. All that was in her view was Malachi waving in sadness. ‘You’re a dirty girl, Miley Denise,’ he hissed as they reached her room. There was a particular kind of coldness in the air, as the frightened child’s skirt fell to her ankles. Nothing transpired for at least ten minutes. Her first thought was he was going to rape her, hearing him fidgeting around with his pants. But he never reached for her panties. Her second thought was accurate. Even just thinking of it made it physically painful against her skin. ‘One,’ he counted, striking his leather belt against her firm buttocks. ‘Two…three…four,’ the beating became more and more intense. She knew this punishment enough to know not to cry. If he sees a single tear, Miley would face an hour in the wardrobe. ‘Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen’. A river leaked from a single eye. The pain was unbearable to hide emotions.

‘Get in that wardrobe, you possessed piece of s***!’ he yelled, swinging her to her feet, not bothering about his daughter being half naked. ‘Please daddy,’ she begged like a five-year-old.

The next thing she knew; she was alone in the dark.


‘Get out of my mind,’ she pleaded, throwing her knife across the room, as she pulled ferociously at her black hair. Mascara and eyeliner smudged her upper cheek and below her eyes. She punched her thighs, causing the scars to pump blood faster than before. ‘Does it please you? Do you enjoy ‘urting yourself?’ asked the voice. It was a rather strange one. A French accent, which had been slightly Americanised.

‘Who the f*** are you?’ Miley shouted, breathing heavily.

Holding the stained knife up in the air, Miley hesitated on asking who was there, again. She could feel a cold sweat dripping down her back, as the stranger’s voice exhaled sinisterly above her. ‘Do not feel the need to be scared,’ his voice beseeched calmly, ‘I mean no harm.’

* * *


Anne hovered on insanity. The icy wind resonated the old part of the mansion (an eerie one) that never seemed to disappear. Summer, autumn, winter, spring - it didn’t matter what season it was. The wind was the metaphor of Anne’s continuous insanity.

Her fists clattered against the locked doors, begging for her father’s mercy. ‘Help me, please!’ she would cry, as her distorted body hunched her over akin to the shape of a baby in a mother’s womb. The same white dress, the greasy hair and the, now, deformed feet had given the unfortunate human painful memories for an agonizing ten years. Sitting in her own faeces and urine, Anne was locked away from the ignorance her father had exposed to her: a claustrophobic closet. The persistent memory of that ill-fated night atrociously haunted her. Surrounded by darkness, her eyes could only visualize the family playing their nightly game of cards with… the stranger.

* * *