Shades of Gray

This is very obviously not a poem. But I didn't post any poetry last night because I was working on this, and it's not nearly finished, but I was told that I should post what I had, and I ALWAYS do what I'm told, so here it is.
It will eventually develop to the point where it has a plot, but right now it's just a page and a half of creepiness.
If you can't figure out why it's called Shades of Gray, please don't ask me - I'll get all flustered and unable to explain myself.

SHADES OF GRAY

She dreamed about a baby’s foot that night. In her dream it was small and soft, just the right size to nestle in the palm of her hand. It was so new, so smooth, that she could not help raising it up to her face, inhaling that beautiful smell.
Oh, she thought. The skin was firm and ripe and perfect.
She woke up before she could sink her teeth into it.
Woke up to a mouthful of pillow and a stomach full of nothing but guilt.
It had been the plums. She could see the three small pips still sitting on the edge of her plate, and she shut her eyes so as not to see them.
Not my fault, she thought. Can’t be expected to control my dreams.
She should never have eaten the plums. Hadn’t she known when she bought them? Hadn’t she bought them because of what they’d reminded her of?
Nothing wrong with eating fruit.
Except when you close your eyes to eat it, and imagine how it would be if there were bones, not pips…
Gladia opened her eyes in order to stop seeing babies’ feet. She threw off her blanket, slammed her bare feet onto the floor – wincing, because she had forgotten how cold it was – and rose to greet the day. And to throw out those damn plum pips.
The dreams were not exactly a regular occurrence. Not exactly. There was always enough space between them that Gladia had time to recover, and so she had never learned to shrug them off. On the other hand, they happened just often enough that as soon as one had faded from her mind, another replaced it.
This meant that Gladia spent a great deal of her time in a very bad mood.
Dreaming about feet – particularly succulent, juicy, plum-like feet – was not good for her condition. Not at all.
She walked to the basin on the stove and splashed cold water on her face. The fire needed lighting. That was one thing to do. Perhaps fifteen minutes to spend on that. She took a lock of her hair between finger and thumb and pursed her lips. It could probably do with a wash. That might take the rest of the hour.
After an hour, Gladia would be hungry, and everything would suddenly be so much worse.
With a snarl, she opened the stove. There were coals from the night still, so she blew on them, feeding small pieces of wood to the red glow until flames licked them.
When it was a true fire, she reached around, seized the pips – cold and dry against her fingers – and threw them inside and closed the door.
It wasn’t worth it. She was never buying plums again.
Glancing out the window at the remnant of moon that hung in the lightening sky, Gladia sighed. It was that time of the month. What had she expected? Of course temptation would come knocking.
Taking the large iron kettle from its place by the stove, she stepped outside. The night chill hung in the air, making her shiver.
Temptation, she thought bitterly, stepping towards her well, was the annoying neighbor who was always knocking.
She’d confessed as much to the priest once, back when she’d lived in the village. In the little square confessional she’d tearfully recited the minor indiscretions of the week, and he had asked – almost perfunctorily – if that was all.
No, she’d told him, there was something else. Something worse.
Gladia could almost hear that rustle of cloth, even now, as the priest had sat up in interest. She’d been pretty, even then, and the old man was as much a gossip as the housewives, and the thought of a new juicy secret was enough to have him rubbing his hands together in glee.
Whatever he’d expected, though, it wasn’t a confession of tendencies towards cannibalism.
The rope creaked as she hauled the old wooden bucket up over the rim of stones. It was a good well. She’d dug it herself, when she’d first made this her home. The water was clear and cold and sharp from the minerals in the earth.
The priest ought to have been more sympathetic. With all the temptations a sworn-to-be-celibate man must endure, she’d have thought he’d understand. Of course it wasn’t right to eat people. Gladia knew that. It was probably wrong to even want it. But didn’t she resist? Even at the worst of times, in between moons, when the night sky was dark as sin and the dreams came worse than ever, didn’t she resist?
You couldn’t be bad just for wanting bad things.
The priest ought to have been more sympathetic. He ought to have remembered his own temptations, and understood that she wasn’t accountable for her darkest wantings…
Most of the water went into the kettle, although some splashed onto the ground. Gladia raised the smooth rim of the bucket to her lips, swallowed the last few mouthfuls, and began to pick her way back to the cottage.
He ought to have understood.
The stone path was cold under her feet. She wished she’d stopped to find her boots, forced herself to go slowly so as not to trip.
He ought to have understood, but instead he’d rallied the villagers and they’d torched her mother’s house. Then they’d dragged her, their hands smelling of soot and sweat, into the village square to stone her to death.
To try.
So Gladia knew better now than to expect sympathy from anyone.
She shut the door behind her and plunked the kettle onto the stove. It was warmer already.
Temptation made a pretty poor neighbor, but he was company, and Gladia was awfully lonely sometimes.
It took less time than she’d expected to wash her hair. When she finished she twisted it into a braid and squeezed the water out. Wet it was a different colour, gold instead of ash blonde. Even braided it reached to her waist. Free, it tumbled down to her hips in loose curls waves that swung as she walked.
She would wear the green dress today, with the sword-belt sash that looped her waist and held her herb-gathering knife.
Perhaps it was mostly wanting to banish the remnants of her dream, but Gladia wanted to be beautiful today.
Beautiful and busy. Tonight was a new moon, and the sky would be dark, and her dreams, of course, would be worse than usual. Werewolves and vampires, she’d heard, preferred the full moon, but for witches it was different. Dark skies were best.
Or worst, if you were reformed.