Bedtime stories.

A forgotten cup of tea sat steeping too long on a black coffee table.

When the phone rang, I took a deep breath in, the scent of hibiscus and rose hips flooded in, and I remembered what I had brewed.

I grabbed the mug, the phone, and took myself into the bedroom.

The crimson colored tea was tart, and it made my mouth water like when eating sour candies. I kept sipping and drip by drip, I felt the memories of childhood dancing in my mouth.

The room was dark, save for one small glow to the left. A small votive sat in a stained cornflower glass, gifted some months back.

I lean back onto fluffed pillows and scents of fresh linens waft up, making my belly warm in contentedness.

The voice on the other end gave me a story. He was steady, even. It was as firm and solid as an old oak tree. Something that full, that factual, can only be called safe.

I listened as he read and found my small connections within the picture, like I often do. I heard key words that acted as triggers and sent my imagination spiraling… Again, feeling like a small child, being told another fairy tale.

My breaths grew deeper and deeper the more relaxed I became. I felt things, nameless, faceless things, chip and fall far away from me.

There is a sense of completeness that comes from a certain tone. Something that keeps a border between the waking and dream lives. Something, not quite of our time, of our world. Something far better, ethereal, holy.

I could feel myself begin to float in the silence of the sea of sleep, but I wouldn’t fully commit. I wanted to stay between the worlds, where the voice was guiding me, I wanted to hear the ending… Wanted to know if Sandy was real, if she’d be killed.

And I suppose, that is the beauty of it all.

Snug. As a bug. In a rug.