My dreams are always of an empty city, the same city every night since I was seven years old. The dreams only began after I fell into the old well behind my grandparent's house. Nobody realised it was there until I stepped onto the grass-covered planks only for them to break under my weight and send me hurtling down into murky water.
Granny says the thick moss that thrived in darkness was what saved me, cushioned my fall enough that my only injury was a broken arm. I never told her, or anyone else for that matter, about the missing bricks around the middle of the well and the city I saw through them, the one I've dreamt of ever since.
There are never people in the city, only what they've left behind. It's as if every time I start dreaming, they all run away until I wake up. Whenever I see food, it's always freshly made and piping hot, whenever I see vehicles, the engines are still running and the keys are always in the ignition.
Sometimes I catch glimpses of movement at the far end of a street, something with too many limbs skittering off into a locked building. I suppose with that many limbs it could easily lock the door and run before I could get a good look at it.
Last night when I woke up in the city, for the first time, I had a note in my hand. They've given me an ultimatum - leave the city or die here. Every night I've been filling all the rooms I've woken up in with my plea for them to help me leave once and for all.
Instead of replying to me, I've been waking up with knives in my hands.
No comments:
Post a Comment