Isabel twitched from sleep, her dream remaining like an afterimage.
That same dream again – rooting in to her mind, and then slapping her awake.
She clawed the bottle off the nightstand and slugged a mouthful of the gut burning ‘shine they made in this god forsaken town. Remembering this dream was like trying to see yourself in a mirrored reflection of yourself in another mirror, in another mirror, in another mirror… it echoed and bounced, never stopping. She could see the white dress and the burning candles. She could smell the incense, hear the chanting, all at a terrifying intensity. This dream demanded insight from her like a fist gloved in velvet.