The Ochre Blur

Courtney drifts deeper into a dream world where her deceased husband lives, vibrant and normal, while her waking life in Winnipeg unravels under the cynical gaze of her partner, David.

Courtney’s eyelids felt like lead. Each blink a heavy curtain, separating her from the sharp, undeniable scent of coffee – Joey’s particular blend, ground fresh, not the instant grit she’d choked down this morning – and the warmth of his hand, calloused just so, brushing hers across the kitchen table. He’d been laughing about something trivial, a misplaced set of keys, the morning sun streaming through the window in a way it never quite did in this house, not since… not since. Here, in the real, waking Winnipeg autumn, the sun was a rumour, a whispered memory of brighter days. A thin, grey light pressed against the windows, struggling to cut through the heavy, sodden air. It always smelled of damp earth and the acrid tang of decaying leaves on their street, mixed with the faint, metallic scent of the old pipes in their bathroom. Her tongue still felt thick, coated in the chalky residue of another restless night, another forced return. She hated the mornings. She hated them with a bitter, simmering resentment that coiled in her gut, tight and hot, just below the breakfast she hadn't touched.

What’s… stupid? David’s voice, a low rumble from the living room, startling her. He was always there, a solid, immovable presence, like a piece of furniture she hadn't chosen but couldn't quite get rid of. She hadn't realised she’d spoken aloud, not really, just a frustrated grunt escaping the confines of her own mind. She’d been staring at the chipped paint on the window sill, tracing the faint crack that snaked its way down towards the sill, a tiny imperfection that seemed to mock the flawless, unbroken surfaces of her other life. Everything. School. My dad. Mom… she just… whatever. And then you look up… Her thoughts fractured, jumping from one irritation to another, the dream-world perfection still bleeding at the edges of her conscious mind. The memory of Joey’s smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes, so real it hurt, still lingered on her skin like phantom warmth. This room, this stale air, the perpetual grey outside – it was all a muted photocopy.

"You're drifting again," David said, his voice flat, devoid of real concern, yet laced with a careful observation that always put her on edge. She hadn’t even heard him walk in. He leaned against the doorframe, a mug of coffee clutched in hands too big for the chipped ceramic. The faint scent of his aftershave, sharp and clean, was a stark contrast to the memory of Joey's earthier, familiar smell. "Lost in thought. Or somewhere else entirely." He took a slow sip, his eyes, the colour of stagnant pond water, unwavering. He had a way of looking, not at her, but through her, as if searching for something hidden just beneath her skin. He wore one of his old, worn-out sweaters, a dark green that seemed to absorb all the weak light, making him appear even more imposing against the pale wall. A small stain, probably coffee, near the cuff of his left sleeve. A tiny, irrelevant detail that her mind seized on, a small anchor in the churning sea of her thoughts.

"Just thinking," Courtney mumbled, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers felt cold. "About… work. The usual." She knew it sounded hollow, a rehearsed lie that had worn thin years ago. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen kicked on, a low, persistent thrum that vibrated through the floorboards. She felt it in her teeth. David just raised an eyebrow, a slight, almost imperceptible shift that spoke volumes. He didn't believe her. He never did, not anymore. Not since the dreams had started, or rather, since she'd started talking about them.

"The usual," he repeated, a cynical twist to his lips. "Or the unusual. Joey again, was it?" His voice was low, carefully modulated, but the name hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. A small, almost imperceptible flinch tightened the muscles in Courtney’s jaw. The kitchen light, a harsh fluorescent, flickered once, briefly plunging the corner into deeper shadow before sputtering back to life. A fly, late-season and sluggish, buzzed against the windowpane, a dull, persistent sound.

"He's… fine," she said, her voice thin, almost a whisper. "He was at the lake. Fishing. Caught a pike, remember how he always said he would?" Her heart ached with a longing so profound it felt like a physical wound. In the dream, the sun had been bright, the lake water a shimmering expanse of impossible blue. The air crisp, smelling of pine and clean water, none of this damp, heavy Winnipeg cold.

David pushed himself off the doorframe, the movement fluid, predatory. He walked towards the small kitchen table, pulling out a chair with a scrape that grated on her nerves. The worn wood groaned under his weight. "Remember how he always *said* he would," he corrected, his gaze still fixed on her. "Not *did*. He never caught a pike worth talking about. Too clumsy. Always snagging his line." There was a subtle emphasis on the *never*, a quiet, crushing finality. The memory, true or false, was a weapon.

"It felt real," Courtney insisted, her voice gaining strength, a desperate edge. "More real than… than this." She gestured vaguely at the room, at the grey light, at the whole faded reality they inhabited. She hated how raw her voice sounded, how much it betrayed her. She should be scared. She was scared. But it was also kind of… exciting? Stupidly exciting. God, why did she even stay here?

David leaned forward, his elbows on the table, the chipped mug clanking softly against the wood. His eyes narrowed, searching her face for something she couldn't identify. Or wouldn't. "Of course, it felt real. That's what dreams do. What do you think you’re doing all night, if not making them feel real?" He watched her, a slow, predatory smile touching the corner of his mouth. "You're getting better at it, aren't you? At… staying there." He didn't accuse, not outright. He simply stated it, a quiet poison.

Her stomach clenched. She hadn't told him about the lucid part. No one knew. That was her secret, her sanctuary, her deliberate act of defiance against the harsh edges of waking. "I don't know what you mean," she lied, the words feeling clumsy, tripping over each other. Her hands, resting on the cold tabletop, felt exposed. She tucked them into her lap, clutching the worn fabric of her dressing gown. A moth, sluggish and grey, fluttered past her face, briefly distracting her with its clumsy flight before it settled on the ceiling, a tiny, insignificant detail.

"Don't you?" David chuckled, a dry, mirthless sound that scraped against her eardrums. "Funny. I thought you were the one who always wanted things to be clear. To be… understood." He picked up a stray crumb from the table, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, his gaze fixed on the tiny speck. The small act, so mundane, yet so deliberate, unnerved her more than any direct accusation. He always did that when he was thinking, or calculating.

### The Architect of Slumber

The air in the room grew heavy, thick with unspoken words and the faint, sweet scent of overripe apples from the fruit bowl on the counter. Courtney felt a familiar tightness in her chest, a knot of dread she’d grown accustomed to. She didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second, when she was with Joey. Here, with David, she felt profoundly, suffocatingly alone.

"It's just… nice," she finally managed, the words tasting like ash. "To see him. To talk."

"And what do you talk about?" David asked, his voice softer now, almost coaxing, but there was an underlying current of something sharp, something dangerous. "Does he tell you secrets? Things he never told you when he was… awake?" He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression unreadable. His right foot tapped a slow, rhythmic beat against the floorboards, a sound she recognised as a sign of his growing impatience.

That streak… reminds me of last summer. My brother yelling at me for breaking his telescope. And now… is that Perseus? Or Cygnus? Whatever. Bright. I like bright. Her mind, in its defensive state, was making associative leaps, anything to avoid the direct line of David's interrogation. She felt a familiar burn behind her eyes. He was fishing, she knew it. Always fishing.

"He talks about… normal things," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, even. "The weather. The garden. His plans for the shed." Lies, partial truths. In the dream, they talked about everything, just like they used to. The mundane was what made it real. The utter, blissful normality. They'd never discuss the shed, not really. It was the easy quiet, the shared glance over breakfast, the way his arm felt solid around her when they walked their dream-dog down a dream-street in a dream-Winnipeg that didn’t smell of rain and decay.

"The shed," David scoffed softly. "Joey barely knew one end of a hammer from the other. Always meant to fix it up, never got around to it. Funny how the dream-version of him is so much more… industrious." His gaze sharpened. "Or perhaps you're filling in the gaps. Making him into what you always wanted him to be."

A fresh wave of resentment washed over her. He always did this. Always tried to minimise, to invalidate. Like her grief was a performance, her memories a malleable thing he could twist and reshape. "It’s not like that," she snapped, feeling the fragile composure she'd built crumbling around her. "You don't understand. It’s him. It’s really him." She knew how desperate she sounded. It didn’t matter. This was her truth.

"And what happens," David murmured, leaning forward again, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "when you start preferring *that* version to… everything else?" He looked around the small kitchen, his gaze lingering on the faded wallpaper, the peeling paint, the stack of unread bills on the counter. "To this? To me?" The last two words hung heavy, a challenge, a subtle threat. He didn’t sound hurt, not truly. He sounded calculating.

Her breath hitched. He always knew how to twist the knife, how to find the softest, most vulnerable spot. It was true, wasn't it? She did prefer the dream. She preferred the clean, sunlit world where Joey was alive, whole, where their problems were solvable, mundane, not this gaping, unfillable void. He didn’t know how close she was to just… letting go. To slipping away entirely.

"You're obsessed," David stated, his voice devoid of emotion, like a doctor delivering a diagnosis. "It's not healthy, Courtney. Living in the past. Living in a delusion." He picked up the coffee mug, draining the last cold dregs. The cup clattered loudly when he set it back down. A loose floorboard near the fridge creaked under some imperceptible pressure, adding to the low cacophony of the old house.

"It’s not a delusion if it’s real to me," she countered, her voice shaking slightly. She didn’t want to argue. She just wanted him to leave her alone, to let her have her fragile peace. He didn’t have to understand. He just had to let her be.

"Real to you," he echoed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "But what about real to everyone else? What about what's actually real, Courtney? This. This house. This city. Me. You're losing yourself." He stood up, stretching his arms above his head, a casual, almost lazy movement that nevertheless conveyed power. "And I don't know how much longer I can watch it happen."

He didn’t say he’d stop her. He didn’t say he’d try to bring her back. He merely stated he couldn't *watch*. The implication hung unspoken, sharp and clear. He’d let her go. He’d step back. Or worse, he’d facilitate it. An unspoken agreement, a silent betrayal. The air suddenly felt thinner, colder, as if the last vestiges of warmth had been sucked out of the room. He didn’t say goodbye. He just turned and walked away, his footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving her alone with the buzzing fly, the insistent rain, and the echoes of a life that felt increasingly like a distant dream. She heard the faint thud of a door closing down the hall – his office, probably. He'd be on the phone for hours, or pretending to be.

---

### The Unseen Shore

Courtney sat there, fingers pressed against her temples, trying to push away the encroaching headache that was a constant companion these days. Joey, in her dreams, never had headaches. He was always vibrant, full of that quiet energy that had drawn her to him in the first place. This David, this new David, was something else entirely. She couldn’t shake the memory of Joey, not really. That last autumn, the air crisp and smelling of burnt leaves. The way Joey had looked at her, truly looked at her, when they’d had that argument about David moving in. Joey, always too trusting. Always too ready to believe the best in people, even in his own cousin, David.

She’d never told Joey how uncomfortable David made her, even back then. That cynical glint in his eye. The way he’d subtly undermine Joey, pass it off as a joke. Joey would laugh, oblivious. Now, Courtney saw it everywhere. In the curve of David's smile, in the slow, deliberate way he drank his coffee. Everything he said was a double-edged sword, every gesture a calculated move.

She closed her eyes, trying to conjure the image of Joey, not the one from her dream, but the real one. The one who had coughed, whose hands had trembled, whose eyes had grown shadowed in the last few weeks. But the dream-Joey, robust and alive, kept superimposing himself. She pressed harder against her temples. The phantom warmth of his hand, the smell of his coffee – it was stronger than any real memory now. More powerful, more vivid.

She remembered standing in the hospital corridor, the antiseptic smell thick and cloying, the fluorescent lights humming a sickly tune. David had been there, a silent, comforting presence, his hand on her shoulder. "He's gone, Courtney," he'd said, his voice gentle. "There's nothing more we can do." But there was something in his eyes, even then. A flicker. Something she hadn't been able to place. Not sorrow. Something else. Relief? Triumph? She'd dismissed it as grief-induced paranoia. Now, it haunted her.

The rain outside intensified, a drumming against the roof that promised a colder, wetter night. She shivered, despite the warmth of her dressing gown. Her stomach rumbled, but the thought of food was repugnant. What did she eat in the dreams? Whatever Joey cooked, usually. His scrambled eggs, light and fluffy, with a sprinkle of chives from their dream-garden.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. David. A text. 'Still want me to pick up those groceries? Or are you planning to stay in paradise tonight?' The casual cruelty of it, disguised as concern. He knew. He knew she was teetering, that the real world was losing its grip. And he was pushing her. Gently, subtly, but pushing nonetheless. He wasn’t trying to save her. He was trying to lose her. The thought sent a jolt of cold fear through her, sharpening her senses. The hum of the refrigerator. The rain. The fly. All suddenly real, immediate, inescapable. She looked at her phone, the screen glowing with David’s words, a portal to a different kind of reality, one far more menacing than any dream could ever be. What did he want? What did he truly want her to lose? And what would he gain? Her mind raced, a chaotic swirl of suspicion and fear. Every sentence. Every look. It was all a game, a carefully orchestrated dance. She felt trapped, caught between two worlds, neither truly safe.