Wake Up

Content Warning: Story contains references to physical violence, war and destruction, as well as deals with themes of fear and uncertainty.

Wake up.

 They scramble and stumble out from underneath piles of blankets into icy, deathly air that holds the sun’s first, blooming rays as if in prayer, as it climbs its way over rooftops sprinkling with frost. Dust floats about in the air, slow and lethargic, bogged down by the cold, and the world holds itself still, terrified and waiting (for what, they do not know).

 The window panes are encrusted with foggy crystals, and shivers rack through their spine. The radiator’s filler cap is freezing to the touch and scrapes open, heat hissing as it escapes, growling and rushing through the pipes.

 The floorboards are smooth and cold beneath their feet as they make their way down the hall. The coffee maker is still lying in the sink from the day before, and they dry it quickly, mechanically, the metal cold and familiar under their fingers. The coffee grounds are rich and earthy, small and coarse and they dip the spoon in. One, two scoops, and plug in the percolator.

 It bubbles and whirs, hissing and spitting, begging for the world to breathe. It doesn’t, though-- everything is held, still and breathless, suffocating and dying. Frozen.

 Their papa is a long, long way away, and their mama is just as far, albeit in another direction.

 Somewhere distant, somewhere unobtainable.

 Deep breath.

 Inhale.

 Exhale.

 The percolator stills, and quiets, succumbing to the frozen morning. They move quietly, reverently. One wrong move and the glass will shatter, the world breaking apart and crumbling. The coffee pools at the bottom of the mug, dark and bitter, twisting and silky, steaming gently.

 They step out onto the front stairs of their small, little apartment, coffee burning between their palms as they sit down, tucking in on themselves as the world begins to wake up around them. 

 A phone rings-- distant, close.

 Again. Distant? Close?

 And again. Distant, close.

 They answer, the line clicking to life beside their ear.

 Hello?

 Hey kid! I’m in town for a bit, wanna get coffee?

 I’d love to!

 Awesome! I’ll pick you up!

 See you soon?

 See you soon, love

 Birds flirt tentatively in the trees, the sunlight cold and golden, soft and shivering with every rush of wind. Their sweatshirt is heavy on their shoulders, soft and warm as they slip on tennis shoes. Keys knock against each other, jingling softly beside a beaten up whistle and an old, bent keychain, the metal cold and familiar beneath their fingers the door closes with a click, behind them.

 An old car, held together with duct tape and superglue, running on nothing but willpower alone, sits waiting on the street, the door opening and closing with a resounding snap.

 “Hey kiddo. It’s been a bit, huh?”

 They rush forward, hope blooming and blossoming as the world begins to turn, frost glistening in the newborn sun, and crash against them as they pull them in close. It’s nice-- warm and safe and the glass shatters, fracturing, blurring and cracking the world around them; kind eyes are churning and crumbling away into ash, as they city lights and burn around them, nothing but bloody corpses and rotten streets, broken buildings shattered with terror and rage and hatred, and it twists on their tongue and chokes them, devours them, left kneeling beside a lifeless corpse, a body which holds nothing of the person there once was, standing beside them, standing with them, and now

 Wake up.

 Wake up to an empty world, rubble and blasted out walls, ash raining from the sky and apocalyptic, disease ridden streets where someone once laughed and cried and cars rushed past in panicked frenzy, where soccer balls were lost to sewer systems and a child of maybe eight or nine cut their knee open on a broken bottle while playing baseball on the black pavement.

 And now they are utterly alone, again. Cold and forgotten-- left behind with nothing but a smattering of gravestones and old, burnt notes. Dead phones and empty photos.

 There is nothing where there should be something, and they loved someone, loved so many someones, with everything they had within them-- loved with every atom and every fiber of their being, and now they are gone-- gone gone gone gone gonegonegonegonegone and they’re ripped apart, atoms crumbling and churning, every cell alight and burning, burning and dying away, till they are nothing but the ghosts of embers cast upon unrecorded graves.

 Flames churn, licking and devouring, hungry and screaming with rage somewhere in the city-- in the city annihilated by cataclysmic rage and hatred. A thousand, million lives lost, and they are sitting on broken concrete and old bricks, photos and papers and memories burning alive around them and there is no one and they are nothing. They’re trapped, trapped in a vast world which once meant something to so many, and is now the largest gravestone they have ever seen, one vast, smoking vat of concrete and asphalt and stone. 

 Where would you go, with nothing behind and nowhere to go?

 Screaming, somewhere, flames and ash and blood mingling and mixing, and death has wrought and bent the air, icy wind replaced with rotting flesh and desperation, burning lives and nothing nothing nothing where there should have been so much and

 And wake.

  Old bed, same bed. Brick and plaster walls, chipped, loved paint and an empty room. Old mattress, boxes and boxes piled around.

 You are leaving.

 Of course.

 Leaving and they cannot remember why, but Mama pokes her head in and tells you to hurry it up.

 The truck will be here soon.

 Boxes packed and piles away. Nothing you could not live without, and you’re leaving all you love behind.

 Thirty minutes, perhaps, later, and old, white picket fences send curls of disgust up their spine and they shiver.

 I would like to go home now, please.

 This is home now, kid. You’ll get used to it.

 Cold woods-- empty, dark, vaguely malicious, rotted curled branches and choked briars that smile with something that makes you sick as they walk past.

 Not warm, not familiar.

 Not gently rolling mountains or the familiar skyline of skyscrapers and the university campus. Empty. Unfamiliar. Lonely.

 The bed is cold, in a dark room, inhospitable with hostile noises creaking in the dark.

 Leave. Leave. Leave you are not wanted here. Leave. Leave leave leave leave.

 Mama, I would like to go home.

 Mama, can we please go home.

 This is Home, locked away in empty, hostile wilderness.

 They do not want us here, and this is where we are.

 Why? Can we please go home.

 I miss my home.

 Wake up.

 Empty, unfamiliar ceiling. Not home, yet Home.

 House, chilled and unfriendly.

 Fire won’t light, too damp.

 Lights flicker and sigh with the boughs of the storm.

 Mama, please, I want to go home.

 This is Home. I’m sorry.

 Mama! Please can we go home?! I’m scared.

 This is Home.

 Mama, please, it doesn’t want me here.

 This is Home. 

 Mama!

Mama

Please

i

need

to

go

home

This is Home.

 Locked in a haunted wood.

 Children afraid of the dark.

 W. H. Auden had nothing on you.

 And wake.

 Again.

  Old room, old life, with no color but cold emptiness.

 The dog barks downstairs.

 You know this dog, of course.

 With sharp teeth and disgusted insults.

 The owner hates you, a pumpkin incident years and years back. 

 Perhaps it was a nightmare.

Perhaps no one knows anymore.

 The owner smiles with a sickly smile, and she was supposed to come home, this afternoon, to play piano.

 Chopin dances somewhere, fingers light against the keys.

 Happy, soft, sad, calm.

 Empty

 Lively

 Scared

 Terrified

 The dog smiles and barks again and

 Wake.

 Scramble and stumble out from underneath piles of blankets into icy, deathly air that holds the sun’s first, blooming rays as if in prayer, as it climbs its way over rooftops sprinkling with frost. Dust floats in the air, slow, lethargic, bogged down by the cold, the world holds itself still, terrified and waiting.

 Window panes encrusted with foggy crystals. Radiator’s filler cap frozen to the touch and scrapes open, heat hissing as it escapes, growling and rushing through pipes.

 Floorboards are smooth and cold. Coffee maker is lying in the sink from the day before-- dry it quickly, mechanically, the metal cold and familiar. Coffee grounds are rich and earthy, small and coarse as the spoon dips in. One, two, plug in the percolator.

 Bubbles and whirs, hissing and spitting, begging the world to breathe. It doesn’t, though-- everything is held, still and breathless, suffocating and dying. Frozen.

 Deep breath.

 Inhale.

 Exhale.

 The percolator stills, and quiets, succumbing to the frozen morning. Move quietly, reverently. One wrong move and the glass will shatter, the world breaking apart and crumbling. The coffee pools at the bottom of the mug, dark and bitter, twisting and silky, steaming gently.

 Step out onto the front stairs, coffee burning and steaming as the world begins to wake up around them. 

 A phone rings-- distant. Close.

 Again. Close? Or distant?

 And again.

 Answer. Line clicks to life.

 (Distant, close?)

 Hello?

 Hey kid!