The Scream

There was a shift that day, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. 

As she laced up her trainers and stretched her legs, something shifted within her. She pushed against the walls, arching her back and ignoring the light thumping that was beginning to take hold behind her eyes. Blinking furiously, willing the impending tightness away, she unclipped the lock and sped out the door. 

The chilly air bit at her skin, tiny lumps smothering her, calling translucent hairs to attention. She has no intention of going back, though she’d be lying to herself if it wasn’t a fight to reach for the alarm and switch it to snooze. The cold is merely a reminder that she is awake, that the day is new, and that she is still alive. 

Her feet bounce from the hard concrete, picking pace with each lengthy stride as she runs to beat the sun. The occasional car drives past headed towards the city, all of the lawyers, the doctors, the cleaners; the eager and the meager vying for a chance at freedom. This, pounding pavement before waking hours, this is her freedom. Perhaps she has the luxury to think this, financial worries have never burdened her, she reminds herself in this moment to consciously check her privilege even in her innermost musings. 

Lights flicker on in the houses that line the dead straight highway, replacing the street lamps that slowly peter out with the glow of morning. Her breathing is good, she notices. She is finding herself looking around, spotting trees she’d never seen before and colonial awnings on cottages she’d never known existed. The light headache that began to form is shifting now, easing its way around the back of her skull, hopefully on its way out. 

A sudden jolt in her chest brings her to a stop. Her focus shifts from a beauty in her surroundings to a sudden pit in her stomach, a flutter in her chest, a lightness in her arms. Her eyes clamp shut and she straightens herself, wondering what this foreign feeling could be. One, two, three, four… she counts her heartbeats under her breath, releasing her eyes to the light once more. She steps forward tentatively, feeling her feet pulled to the ground, rounding her shoulder to release the tension of the shock. 

Nothing seems to be amiss physiologically, which relieves her as she scans her body, aware of her breath and her heart and her aching head, but the feeling remains.

She pushes on. Her walk returns to a run, her feet tramping along the same path she takes every morning before the mundanity of the day begins. She wonders if it’s dread, there will be a sea of emails to wade through once she’s home and tangles of avoidable mess to unravel from incompetent collegaues. 

She shakes her head, reclaiming her freedom. Work will not impede this run. Work will not impede this run. Closing her eyes, she feels her body fly again, stronger than it’s ever been. The way her legs propel her through the air, her back straight and her arms pumping against the sheer force of gravity she begins to feel superhuman. A smile flashes across her face, the corner is approaching. When she rounds the side of the old cafe, she will open her eyes to the sun’s daily pièce de résistance, rising over the vast ocean. There are just a few strides left, her body steadies itself for a sharp turn, a spectacle awaiting, the dawn of a day of unending potential. 

Her body throws itself around the corner as she thrusts open her lids once more to find nothing but darkness. She squints, trying to make out the white of waves but the sea is enveloped in black. The sounds of violent swell roar in the distance, but there is no sun. 

Bewildered, she lifts her wrist to check her watch but she mistakes her left from right.  It’s a weird morning, you’re in shock, you’re fine. The time is the same, she knows this already; her routine is unwavering day after day, but as she looks closer, the strangeness of the number formation peaks her interest. Her mind didn’t register, of course, how would it? The fascinating thing about brains is their innate ability to make sense of the nonsensical, and that is how at first she didn’t notice the numbers were completely back to front. 

The pit in her stomach opens once more, and the tension behind her eyes flares up. She turns, eye to the sky as the warm glow of the new sun burns across a western horizon. 

Her breath catches, the gravity of the moment indecipherable. She is confused, perhaps still waking from a much deeper sleep than she is used to. Nodding to herself, she begins to walk home. It makes perfect sense, as she thinks back to countless scientific papers on sleep-walking and the effects of stress and nutrient deprivation. Her routine, she concludes, is so ingrained that she is simply in a dream-like state and it would be much safer for her to get home and wait it out. 

Slowly, with each step, the sun casts its bright rays on the sleepy suburbs. Pinching hard on the skin of her arm, breathing deeply to stay in control, she’s surprised she hasn’t managed to completely wake herself; light bruising has already begun to form. 

You’re dreaming, it’s a dream. She finds herself soon uttering this out loud, under hushed breath but the words come out muddled. 

It is when the old man from the colonial house steps out onto the sidewalk that she falls into complete silence. He stares first at the sky, mouth agape and hands shaking. With a single finger raised, he points to the horizon where a blinding wall of light has begun to rise beyond the sun and past the mountain ranges. Before she can comprehend, he has turned to her. His face slowly drops as he grips his head in his hands and falls to his knees, screaming incoherently before collapsing into stillness. 

She knows she should help, but she steps over the man and breaks into a flailing sprint. She feels nothing, her breath is empty and her legs are numb. She doesn’t turn around as others begin to emerge from their dwellings, panicked yelling and screaming ensuing. 

You’re dreaming, it’s a dream, it’s a fucking dream, you’re in a dream. 

The door flings wide and hammers into the wall, leaving a profound dent in the newly painted hall, but she doesn’t notice. She runs to the bathroom and cradles the toilet bowl, retching uncontrollably. A dizziness overcomes her, the pain in her head now searing her retinas. 

Slowly she rises, steadying herself with the basin before she eyes herself in the mirror. This isn’t the woman she sees every morning. There is something in the shape of her nose, her jawline and her eyes are askew. No, this is the woman she sees in photographs plastered across the internet, printed on glossy magazine spreads, proudly beaming on her parent’s mantle. 

It is in this moment that her heart seems to stop. She floats to the bed, letting the unmade duvet engulf her as she reaches for the remote. She doesn’t dare to look up and meet the eye of the news anchor as his deep voice breaks the eerie silence of her lonely room. 

“On this day,” his voice breaks, his breaths shallow, “the sun has risen in the west. What this means, scientists are yet to comment…” 

His voice trails off. She doesn’t have a chance to look up to see him reach slowly to his head, his eyes and his mouth dropping before succumbing to guttural screams, for shetoo  is inundated with a blinding agony, thrust into darkness, waiting for it to all be over.