Like Broken Glass

The alarm goes off, it stings, it pierces my mind, it hurts. It’s too early.

The siren stops, the clock ablaze, but no, that’s only in my mind. Only in my mind. The clock has done its job today, that’s all, it’s just doing its job.

So why do I feel so dreary then, why do I feel so pained? It’s because the clock’s gone back, that’s all, the times have turned. I’m weighed down by sleepiness, pulled into my pillow by desire. No, I can’t, I have to get up or else, I have to get up.

But what is this? It can’t be. A dream, that’s all, it’s just a dream.

The calendar’s wrong, by years and years, the edges blackened, flaking off. My pictures are gone, not gone, but changed. That isn’t me, it can’t be me, that vague face can’t be my own. I won’t believe it, can’t believe that this is the right bedroom. No, it is, it must be right. No, it’s not, it’s all wrong, nothing close to what it was, no sign that it’s the same room that I remember. It’s all right, it’s just a dream, it has to be, it’s just a dream.

A blinding light bleeds through the curtain, whitens the edges of the walls around the window. No, not bright, but getting darker, it must be night, I just woke up, it can’t be night, but it must be night. I tear the curtains open, I rip them to the sides, a violent act. I can’t believe in what I see, I know that I’ll never believe it. I turn away, and my chest is heavy, weighing me down, suffocating my heart. I remind myself it’s just a dream. It’s just a dream. Just calm down, it’s just a dream.

I turn around to face the world again, or more to face the sky. It’s dark and gloomy, the sky is dark, it’s covered in clouds and black fog. I look down, at the ground, forever away. If I were to jump out the window, if I were to jump, I would never hit the ground, I would never reach it, it’s too far. I wouldn’t jump, I wouldn’t dare, but it’s just a dream, so it wouldn’t matter anyway.

The houses – no, the towers rise, like flowers in a field, like we’re living on petals. Like flowers, like flowers. I like flowers. Relief washes over me, crashing against my body like waves. The buildings rise like flowers in a field, and I like flowers, so it’s okay. We’re on the top, we’re on the petals, but not really, it’s just a tower anyways, and this is just a dream.

Is it a dream? Everything seems too vivid, everything seems too real. I rest my hand on my forehead, but my forehead is numb, frozen like ice, and my hand feels dead, and I don’t feel anything. Anything, I need to know that this is a dream. I dig my nails into my arm, and drag them through my skin. They leave marks the colour of blood, but it’s not just the colour. And then, pain. It shoots through me, and it doesn’t stop at my arm, it shoots through my veins and into the rest of my body. Up my neck and through my chest, nails drag through me, but not really.

There’s barely any blood, and it dries. I can smell it, though. I can smell it as vividly as I could feel the pain, and then I know I’m not dreaming, I know I can’t be asleep.

I feel weights inside of me, but they aren’t weighing me down, they’re weighing me up. Not lifting me like balloons, but I’m being weighed upwards, but it can’t be real, it’s all in my head. I drag myself out the door, to a spiral staircase. It twists and winds, and I’ve never been so eager to leave, and I start my way down, I stomp my way down. I have to get out, I have to leave, because something is wrong, because this isn’t a dream.

The calendar changed, and it’s too far ahead. The air is spoiled, rotten with the sweet scent of smoke, and I can’t help but think it’s permanent, the air forever smells of gas.

I spill down the staircase like a broken bottle of molasses. Time has slowed down, I can’t seem to go faster, every agonizing step drags on as I make it, seemingly, nowhere.

When I do see an end, I don’t even manage a smile, because my face seared with heat, smothered on both sides, like I was cooked in a frying pan. My face must be red, though I can’t see it, and when I reach the bottom of the staircase, I can’t get through the door at the end, at least not fast enough. My eyes sting with sweat and my vision is blurred away, and it feels so real that it can’t be a dream.

I wipe my eyes. It’s not a dream, I decide, but a horror film. The buildings are stacked so high above me, houses piled on top of each other to create the illusion of towers. No, they’re not like flowers, but like something else that’s awful.

There are no people, and that scares me more than anything else. The land is deserted. How long has it been?

When I look to the horizon, I can barely see it, but there it looks like the towers are gone, like I can get out of this little maze. I pick up my feet and I sprint, kicking up dust from the crusty dry ground, and leaving a broken trail behind me. I have to get out, because I just can’t handle it. It’s not meant to be easy, I tell myself, because horror films are never easy.

The horizon grows as I get closer, the end of the buildings approaching. And then, a real flower field.

Greens and reds and purples, and yellows and blues and whites. They sprinkle the grass, covering it all, leaving only a rainbow, stretching out all the way, reaching to the end of my vision around me. I don’t dare look behind me, I can’t see it again. Traces of smoke still hang in the air, but only enough that you’ll smell it if you’re looking for it.

I collapse.

And the flowers catch me, and when I close my eyes it feels like they engulf me, but when I open them again, I’m only laying on top. I stare at the grey sky, at the heavy, dark clouds, at the black smoke. The darkness of the sky never ends, only stretching out to all corners of my vision.

I sit up. I see the towers reaching up before me, but now I don’t see horror, I just see a broken city. The corners of every building are edged in black, flaking away. The paint is worn, and I can see it from here only on the closest buildings, but the grey paint is chipping away, flaking away. The buildings farthest back are small, but I still see them, and they all merge into one gloomy, sad blob if I squint.

I can’t keep looking.

I fall back into the flowers, and they catch me again, just like the first time. Ever so soft, ever so delicate, stems of cotton and petals of silk. I turn my head to the side, my chin touching my shoulder, and my nose pressed into the field. Sweetness, softness fills my nose, fresh, as if it just rained.

A drop. And another. They hit me, cool, hard, and soft at the same time, rough but gentle. The sky lets go to everything it was holding on to, hitting me with buckets of water at a time.

No matter how long it rains, the sky stays grey. The clouds don’t lighten, turning white gradually. They won’t.

Sadness. Pain, and agony. Sharp piercings of grief, and weights on my chest. That’s all this world is. I’m glad that no-one’s around in the city anymore, to feel this pressing hurt. I’m sad that no-one’s around to know this sweet happiness I’ve found in the grass.

Any way I see it, it’s sad.

No-one to share my pleasures with, it’s not worth being.

The best I can do is close my eyes, and go to sleep, and hope that it will make sense.