And In The Beginning

Helen has been having troubling dreams.

Ahh, home at last. The large, gilded doors of the gate finally swung open to reveal the palace built more for opulence than protection. Helen reclined in her litter letting its swinging calm her as the slaves bore her the extra few leagues to the actual doors of the palace.

Smooth, cool marble greeted her naked feet: a sensation synonymous with home. The folds of her linen dress swished across the floor, gold clanking on her wrists and in her hair. On both sides and behind Helen was flanked by men wearing helmets and bearing swords. Without having been told, Helen knew she was being escorted to the great hall, its wooden doors looming at the end of the hallway. Perhaps it was from experience, or perhaps instinct was telling Helen she most definitely did not want to see what lay behind those doors. 

As she got closer Helen could see the pastel fog curling under the door and bringing the smell of musky incense to her nose. She hesitated. A firm arm pushed her from behind. Seemingly from nowhere Helen was being clad in a golden cape, a crown of laurels placed atop her raven curls. So much circumstance she scoffed. If Helen hadn’t felt such foreboding she would have laughed aloud.

Why do you scoff child?

Helen jumped. Apparently no one else had heard it. How could they not notice that voice? Loud yet soft, proud but not arrogant, musical in an inexplicable, unearthly way.Who’s there? she demanded.

So beautiful, yet so terribly demanding. Do you not know me, child?

Helen was at a loss for words. Somehow, every question she wanted to ask sounded foolish, so she remained silent. A few steps in this matter, and the voice was back, laced with venom.

You have something of mine, and I want it back!

Helen Juno Meyers awoke with a start, tangled in her sheets and panting. Confused and disoriented Helen fought to free herself from the bedclothes, until she realized the reason for her rude awakening was the sound of doors slamming. She rubbed her eyes in sleepy frustration. The floral shop held such ungodly hours. Helen had been on call all the previous day which had translated into yet another all-nighter with a difficult birth. But hey, that’s why they needed Helen. She was, after all, the best.

Glancing at the clock, Helen already knew she wouldn’t like what she saw. She laid on her small, creaky bed for a moment observing the room around her through bleary eyes. Not only were her eyes clouded with sleep and partially removed make-up, Helen also had terrible vision. Sliding on her oh-so-sleek Ralph Lauren glasses (a remnant of better days) the small, old-fashioned bedroom came into focus. The paint was once a comely shade of blue, or so she was told, before it faded in the harsh California sun. Lace curtains helped deter the light, though that tricky sun still found his way under the venetian blinds to slant across the stained wood floor. Helen sat up in bed, enjoying those precious moments before the day began. 

Had Helen dreamt? Yes, she certainly had. For the past 3 years and 2 months her dreams had followed the same theme, though the dreams never repeated themselves. Lately they had become clearer, more vivid. The voice Helen heard in her dreams had started to invade her waking hours, at those “few” moments Helen lost control. Thus, she was on the verge of a schizophrenia diagnosis, but what did that shrink know anyways? 

Rising from the bed with great ceremony�"the ceremony of creaky springs and louder floorboards�"Helen shuffled down the hall to the bathroom. There, looming above the ornately framed mirror was the lightly tanned, slightly greasy face she knew so well. Lather, scrub, rinse. Helen was meticulous in her personal hygiene. No less than 3 products were recruited to tame her raven trusses alone, not to mention the perfume, lotion, and many cosmetics Helen held at her disposal. Dark eyes were highlighted with brown tones and thick lashes. Full, nude lips got a healthy dose of slightly shimmering gloss. A few adjustments here and there, and Helen had her signature waves just so. 

But what to wear? Back in her bedroom Helen stood before her armoire, glaring at the row of tightly-packed thrift apparel as if the longer she stared, the more likely she was to find a suitable outfit. Alright, nothing creative and ground-breaking? Settle for the old standard. Snug dark-wash skinny jeans, white Henley tee over a nude-colored push-up bra, and high-top black converse. She didn’t try to look like a hipster, it just came naturally with a sadly limited income and a fierce longing for independence.

The final touches of a cheap stainless steel watch and her ruby necklace were added before Helen made her way to the kitchen for a bagel and some cream cheese. Sliding on her sunglasses Helen shoved keys, smokes, lighter, wallet, and lip gloss into her yellow and white striped purse. With the turn of a key the bolt slid into place on her apartment door and she found herself facing the creaky, dusty old staircase down to the floral shop, or the street. Sometimes Helen would exit through the shop grabbing a flower or two to brighten her day, but the shop sounded busy and Helen still wasn’t awake enough to face that rubbish.

Helen let the long, thin cylindrical casing of a cigarette hang from her lips as she shoved her shoulder into the heavy metal door, compelling the beast to open.

Author's Note

This piece of writing is sort of like a snippet of a conversation. Please ignore the fact that it is incomplete.