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You are Chris, and colours blend into each other, shapes long forgotten; all you are able to make out are the formless colours dancing, mingling together. You do not know how you got here or where here even is. There is something pressed against your chest with strength, not too much strength; it doesn’t bring pain, but enough to the point your weakened form could not fight it. Closing your eyes, you pray for the world to stop spinning, but closing your lids causes the planet to rotate even faster. On autopilot, your arms wrap around the thing that has you trapped in its embrace. As the colours of the world begin to recede into the objects they are birthed from, the spinning slows as if a merry-go-round is stopping, slowing for the next occupant.
The thing that clings to you is soft and warm and feels so right within your arms. Looking down at the figure, you see something in the world of blurs; you see a face crystal clear. It is the only thing concrete in this haze you are trapped within. It is the face of an angel, flawless white porcelain skin unblemished apart from the tear stains running from her eyes. Her vulnerability is something you are drawn to, something you want to shield and protect from this mad galaxy. Wide, imploring eyes gaze up at you with their ruby-red gleam, needy and wanting. Of course, it is Claire; who else but Claire would be clinging to you so tightly, grinning up at you with pure relief, with her face wet with her own tears?
Claire’s arms move, leaving your chest, bringing a slight sorrow in your heart, your head still drunk. But as if hearing your desires, they wrap around you again, but this time your neck. Standing on her tiptoes, she closes the distance and gently pulls you into her. Her face approaches yours; you aren’t sure why, but a closer inspection of her beauty is welcome; in fact, you aren’t even sure if she is really coming closer. The world is still a mess your brain has yet to process.
Her lips are the same wonderful scarlet as her eyes, contrasting perfectly with her chalk white skin, utterly striking. Mesmerising. They have cast a spell upon you, enchanted you with their magic and you are a happy captive. Tentatively, gently, they press against yours with a timid shyness. There is a pause as you feel her soft lips on yours, waiting for you to pull away with anger on your face. Of course, you do not; why would you? This fever dream is one you welcome. Clearly, you have died, died from something you just can’t quite remember, and are being rewarded by the Force with a rapturous hallucination.
