Invading My Dreams

My name is Rosemary Hill, and this is the story of why I killed my soulmate. 

We should probably start from the beginning. 

Jonas and I were born at the same exact moment in time. The 36th second, 9th minute, 14th hour, and the twenty-fifth day of December. Also known as Christmas. 

His mother was a dancer. Not the erotic kind, the classical sort. She performed in front of hundreds of awestruck patrons, and thousands upon thousands of higher-class dignitaries more concerned with the security of their social status than they were with the beauty of her fluid movements. 

Of course, he and I only knew this from old VHS tapes and newspaper reviews tucked away in the basement of our local library. She died giving birth and his father, stricken with agonizing heartache, jumped from the Skyway Bridge soon after. 

My mother was a strung-out mess, usually found in the backseat of a married man’s car, a dick in her mouth, and a needle in her arm. She taught me early on the value of a woman’s body; it was a tool to be used in any manner necessary to achieve your life’s desire. In her case, that desire was heroin. She was found face down in the gutter behind Kash-N-Karry, overdosed and abandoned on Christmas day. She stayed there for forty-eight hours because of the holidays. I’d assumed she simply forgot to come home. 

That’s how Jonas and I ended up in the same orphanage. He was just a babe when he first arrived and I showed up almost fifteen years later. 

The thing is, I knew his face before meeting him. I’d seen him in my dreams almost every night for as long as I could remember. He’d been disrupting my slumber my entire life. At first, we would just sit and watch each other. As we grew older, we would talk. About everything. 

He would tell me about the different foster families taking him in, and it was never good. There was the couple with four biological children and six adopted, living in a four-bedroom house with a basement for the fosters. And an older couple who believed liver pate would make a hearty meal for a three-year-old child. Worst yet was the younger couple of which the wife was an absolute angel, but the husband was a monster with a hankering for little boys. 

Jonas would lie, steal, and destroy until each family gave up and returned him to the orphanage. He collected a few bruises and scars along the way, but he got out. He wisened up quickly, given no other choice, and eventually, there wasn’t a foster family alive he couldn’t escape from. 

In our dreams, we could go anywhere. We could do anything. But we usually settled on a sandy shore, under the stars, near a boardwalk leading out into the Gulf of Mexico. We would lay in the sand in our pajamas, side by side, hand in hand. We would build sandcastles with extravagant moats and lavish towers, swim together in the frothy waves, and collect seashells for hours. We would strip down to our undergarments and splash around in the waves, never thinking anything of it, because we were young and innocent. He was my friend. 

Until the summer of my thirteenth year, when I hit puberty. My body filled out, and my mother’s lovers began to notice. One night after a binge, her dealer commented on how beautiful I’d become. I cringed when he ran his hand along my neck, pushing my thick blond hair behind my shoulder. She didn’t notice my discomfort, though. She slapped me that night, harder than ever before, and grabbed my breasts, squeezing them until I cried out from the pain. 

“Just because yours are perky and new don’t mean shit,” she hissed. “You don’t know how to use ‘em, ‘cause you ain’t shit. Got that, girl?”

I couldn’t swim with Jonas that night; partially because of the bruises she left behind, but mostly because I’d become aware of my body, my innocence lost. In our dreams to come, I only swam with my nightgown on. Jonas never mentioned it, as though he understood without me having to say the words. 

Jonas became my best friend but was a figment of my imagination as far as I knew. So imagine my surprise when he appeared in front of me at that orphanage: a living, breathing, daydream of a boy. My voice caught in my throat. He reached out to touch my face and I knew our connection was one no sixteen-year-old had ever felt before. Electricity shot through my entire body, from my cheek through my chest, down my spine… It settled as a warmth between my legs, and my knees weakened. 

Unphased, with cat-like reflexes, he caught me in his arms. 

“I’ve got you, Rosemary,” he whispered into my ear .”I will always have you. Always.”

That night, I dreamt of the beach, but I hid from Jonas under the boardwalk. I watched him from a distance, ashamed of the way he made feel. I’d never longed for somebody the way I longed for him. And that longing intensified when he stripped out of his clothes, down to his boxers, his pale skin reflecting the moonlight with an eerie glow. He waded waist-deep into the water, waves crashing against him. 

It was the first time I’d ever touched myself. And looking back, I’m certain he knew I was there. 

Eventually, sleep wasn’t required for Jonas to reach into my mind. He knew my most personal thoughts, even when I tried to hide them. I’d hear his voice in class when nobody else could, whispering into my ear from across the room. I could feel his warm breath on my neck, despite the distance. 

“Your hair is especially golden today. Your skin is radiant. Your lips are the perfect shade of pink, and I can’t stop thinking about them pressed against mine.” 

With every whisper, I’d blush, hiding my face behind whatever I could find; usually, a book I’d pretend to read. I couldn’t concentrate long enough to finish a page when I knew his eyes were on me. And every time, when I glanced his way, he’d have a roguish smirk plastered across his face. He knew the words were sending chills through me, and he relished every moment.

Besides our visits to the beach and the sweet nothings he’d telepathically send my way, Jonas and I seldom spoke. Nobody at the orphanage suspected we were any more than acquaintances. Besides celebrating our birthdays together every year, we ran in two completely different crowds. 

Jonas spent most of his time with the rowdy crowd. Years of intentionally getting removed from foster homes left him well-versed in misbehaving. 

I wanted to rise above it all, refusing to end up in my mother’s shoes. Sure, she’d trained me to use my mouth in ways no teenager should, but I was more interested in using my brain to get ahead in life. 

We left the orphanage at the same time, after turning eighteen. Jonas moved in with a friend, a tattoo artist who’d offered him his first job. I moved into a dorm at the community college, having started my studies the previous semester. I paid my way with scholarships and grants, determined to graduate with little debt. In all conscious aspects of life, Jonas and I were on our own. 

I continued to meet him in my dreams, though. Occasionally, we would lay in the sand and fall deep into conversation about our lives, our goals, our dreams. And other times, I would hide until he came to strip down to his boxers. I would admire him those nights, letting that electric shock run through my body.

It all changed on our nineteenth birthday, though. The night Jonas didn’t stop at his boxers. His beautiful face, his rippled abs, his muscular thighs; he was a walking Adonis as it was. But when he pulled off his boxers to reveal himself— thick, long, and rock hard… I wanted nothing more in that moment than to feel him in my mouth, to caress him with my tongue. Before I could stop myself, a moan escaped through my trembling lips. Jonas grinned, that same mischievous grin he’d flash at me in school. He knew I was watching. 

He stroked himself while facing me, hidden in the shadows of the boardwalk. 

“I’ve got you, Rosemary,” he whispered, without saying a word. 

“You’re in my head again,” I thought. “How long have you known?”

“I’ve always known, Love. You are mine. You can’t hide anything from me.” He made his way to me still stroking himself, twice as large as when he’d first undressed, and even more insatiable. “I am yours, and you are mine. Don’t hold back anymore.”

I let my gown fall to my feet, my chest out, in my lace panties. I reached down for his warm hands and cupped them around my breast. A thrilling jolt shot through me, and I ached for him more than ever before.

“I can feel your pain,” he whispered, breathlessly. “I can take that pain away.”

And I knew he could, without a doubt in my mind. I wanted so badly to feel him inside of me. But I’d never gone that far with a man before, and it terrified me. So instead, I fell to my knees and ran my tongue from the base of his shaft up to the tip of his head. He shuddered, and it was the first time I’d seen him react in such a way. Years of him causing me to flutter, and I’d never seen the same from him. It gave me more satisfaction than I could have imagined, and I suddenly understood his mischievous grins throughout the years. 

I kissed the head of his cock before plunging it deep into my throat. He moaned, and trembled, grasping at my hair and pulling it tight. I looked up to see his reaction as I ran my tongue along the length of his manhood, pulling back and plunging it deep into my mouth again. He shivered, and my enthusiasm grew. I grabbed his firm ass with both hands and pulled him closer, yearning for more. It wasn’t long before I could taste him, and I swallowed all of him, greedily searching for more. 

He crumpled, falling to his knees, but I wasn’t finished. I wanted more. 

“Rosemary, I can’t,” he cried aloud. I couldn’t stop myself. After years of watching him tease me with his heavenly body and his seductive whispers, I insisted on more. 

“You’re mine, and I’m yours,” I moaned, which was all he needed to hear. He grabbed me by the waist and flung me onto my back, climbing on top of me. His soft lips found the curve of my neck, and then my chest, and his tongue flicked my nipple, causing the ache between my legs to intensify.

“I need you,” I called out, but he continued moving along my body with his mouth. He caressed my breast with one hand, holding himself up with the other, and his tongue found its way to my clit. I cried out, surprised at the pleasure it sent through my body. I couldn’t imagine a better sensation, but he’d only just begun. He thrust his tongue deep inside of me, massaging my depths and driving me wild. 

“Yes!” I shouted. “Oh God, yes!”

“I’m only getting started.” His voice was in my head. His tongue reached deep inside of me, and I moaned louder when he slipped one of his long fingers in, as well. I was already in sensation overload when he slid another two fingers into my passage and used his tongue to tease my clit. Ecstasy filled my soul. It was almost too much to bear, but he whispered again, “Do you want me, Rosemary? Do you want all of me?”

How could I not?

“Now!” I shouted. “I can’t take it anymore, I need you now!”

I grabbed his hair, pulling him up to me. I forced his face to my breast where his tongue was once again working to please me, and I reached down for his cock. I could feel it against me, rock hard and ready. 

He slipped between my thighs, shoving himself deep inside of me. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he ripped me apart. The pain wasn’t enough to slow me down, I needed to be ravaged. 

I consumed him that night, and he did the same with me. We spent hours united on that beach until the waves began to wash over us and the sun brightened the sky.

Jonas ran his hand through my hair, just before I woke. 

“I will always have you,” he said, but I knew it was impossible. 

When I awoke, alone in bed, drenched in sweat, I knew I’d never be free of him. I would long for him the rest of my life, unless I rid myself of him. And considering I was engaged to the sweetest man alive, I had no choice. Jonas had to die.