She was Born in Love with Me

There was never a doubt in her mind that we were meant to be together. We met at a time where love was an afterthought to the seductive nature of raging hormones and teenage immaturity. We married as soon as we could and we were happy. She always said “I was born in love with you,” and then she’d kiss me as deeply and powerfully as any woman could ever kiss a man.

Our downfall began with her night terrors. She’d awaken screaming and flailing against invisible assailants. I’d hold her close, whispering sweet words into her ears, calming her down. She said she couldn’t remember her dreams but being with someone for so long, you learn to recognize the ticks and tocks of their faces.

She was lying to me.

As the terrors intensified, her ability to awaken waned. She scratched and clawed in her slumbering state. Screeches and howls like an animal in a trap filled our bedroom. Purple bags had grown underneath her eyes, her hair fell out, and the energetic woman that I had fallen in love with withered away before my eyes.

Medical experts offered no help. *It’s a psychological disorder*, they said. I stopped going to them when they suggested commitment. She was my lover, not some lunatic that needed to go away.

In her final days, she admitted that her nightmares had been about our previous lives together through the centuries as humans and animals alike. We never lasted very long since we were abominations to the world’s natural order. Her last words were the promise to find me again like she had all the other times before.

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