It Was Only a Dream - Art Prompt Writing Contest #7


Think about the weather. Something else. The body doesn’t move.

It has been ten minutes. What can I do? The click of the rock hitting a piece of metal echoes into the foggy street.

Think about the weather. The body still hasn’t moved yet. I cannot stay. I will be next, they will hunt you down. That is what we where told, that is what happened to him on the road.

It is dead quiet. It seems unreal. Like a dream, you can see everything in clear vision, but you cannot taste or smell or hear anything. Stream of consciousness comes to mind. There is something written on the road sign ahead of me. It looks like blood, please let it not be blood. I walk away from the body, away from the cell phone, away from the past toward the city. Will this be my reality? I listen for any sounds, but there is still nothing. How did this happen to society? No one wanted to listen. The social cohesion blinded everyone, we thought it was there. A tree burning from the inside, a polished shoe on a rotting corpse.

The door is on the side of the road, the gaping black hole in the building. I walk inside, the stench of death hits me. I walk past unrecognisable pieces of rubble. The key fits, the door opens. Clean air, white washed walls and things growing. My piece of heaven in this desolate hell. I close the door and open the curtain just a bit to look at the city of ruins. It has been ten years. It still feels like yesterday. Blinded by the idea of cohesion. I want to laugh, but don’t.

The pieces of leaves scratch my leg through the thin pants. I lay the leaves on the table and look at each one. Roughly twenty. The best three leaves end up in my tea pot. The water comes from a water tank on the rough. The boiled water makes a tea. I sip on the tea, I sit down and listen to the empty silence. Nothing happens here when you don’t want it to happen. This is reality. This is hell.

I must have fallen asleep. The noises outside of my door wakes me.

Fear is the first thing that comes to mind. Then it moves to thoughts about death. The fear of death, rather stay in hell than die.

I cannot move. I look at the door and try to move, but I cannot. I cannot let them get in. Did they follow me from the forest to here? Are they going to kill me like the other? How did we end up in this place? Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, nothing other than animals. Something is behind the door, it wants to get in. Is it them? Or some hungry animal. I try to stand up, but I fall to the floor. The tea cup breaks. They know I am in here. I lay on the floor like a worm, trying to get away from the dangers, but nothing happens. The fear paralyzes me. I close my eyes.

The door flies open. I keep my eyes closed. Something picks me up.

The light hurts my eyes.

I cannot open them, I will die, I won’t look death in the eyes.

The first noises in months. People are talking. What are they saying? Where am I? Dare I open my eyes? Who are they? I feel a finger in my mouth, something bitter. I am forced to swallow. My eyes don’t want to open. I feel paralyzed, not by my own fear. I open my eyes as far as I can. I am in a different room. People in blue clothes. My tongue is glued to my palate. Someone whispers in my ear, “You will be okay. It was only a dream.”