Nightmares (Karen/Frank)
Nightmares + Kastle
She doesn’t dream in color, but neither does she dream in black and white.
It’s shades of blue that color her slumber, and his skin is the palest blue she’s ever seen, an icy canvas covered with dark navy stains that can only be bruises, slashes of blood the color of blueberries smeared across his face.
And he’s as still as a sculpture - static as though he’s never moved, not once in a thousand years - and as much as she tries, there’s no way to pick him up, no way to breath life into his cold lungs.
Because in the nightmares she’s as pale and cold as he is, her soul already cleaved from her body, death hanging around her in a bright almost gleefully evil blue aura the color of forget-me-nots.
But when she wakes, the sun is soft and yellow, streaming through the blinds, Frank warm beside her, his skin flush, in living color.