Last night the city - the city, the city, monstrous and expansive, old and new and grey-like, not ours of course but you understand - was a wasteland. The streets lay strewn and empty. The one I was on, however, was full of the survivors of some unexplained catastrophe. White-Lies-frontman professed his interest, and perhaps love, for me in letter form and it was announced, without being announced. I caught sight of my reflection in the mirroring glass door near the snack table and realised that, mid-apocalypse, I had had the chance to get a wonderful new hipster haircut, and I wondered briefly why no one had commented. I walked the courtyarded wasteland that we had all taken refuge in, to find White-Lies-frontman and tell him I did not think it could work. I feared that if we started something now there would just be too much pressure with the upcoming struggles we would have to face. I did not tell him this but I did not want him burdened by me, for him to feel the need to protect me, if it came to any life or death situations - which it would - so soon in this 'relationship'. We were chilled though and I petted his grey, pointy-faced horse. Animals were particularly attracted to me and I ended up entwined in and with two long, silken-haired dogs, of which one was a cat. His friends commented and I laughed and took the fact that White-Lies-frontman was travelling in a graffiti-ed minibus with a bunch of 20-something skater bois with grace.
Things happened, and happened, and a lot else happened before this happened but when it did I rushed back into the courtyard to find White-Lies-frontman and I threw my arms around his neck from behind and I gasped out that I had made a mistake I had made a mistake. He held me and we were utterly connected, so much so that it would all be fine. But everything and everyone was moving and leaving because we had to, of course, because they were coming, and so I lost White-Lies-frontman as the pointy-faced horse began to rebel and went for me, chasing me around the courtyard backwards, enlisting the help of another horse friend, now both intent on kicking me with their hindlegs, frantically galloping crazily towards me; ass first, heads neighing, teeth bared and frothing from behind. I watched White-Lies-frontman being herded into his minibus by his friends, but he was waiting for me, he was making them wait, he would come, and I had to get to him, but I couldn't escape the horses, who wanted me dead it was decided. I had to jump and climb on top of a huge, old black tv - at least 2m by 2m - that was piled on top of other salvaged rubbish to get away. From above, I watched the graffiti-ed minibus pull a handbrake turn while blank humans insected around it.
I was outside of the courtyard then on the wide grey street and they were coming, of course they were and we could all feel it. It was my brother (his first appearance), an acquaintance from university, a blank ghostly figure who was feminine in nature and myself who stood staring at each other with horror as well as determination for a few seconds before the electronic band standing on a makeshift stage of black shapes next to us started up the song - the song, oh the prodigal song! - that forced us and let us beautifully sprint flat out down the street, while teachers - past and present as well as Stevie Nicks who was not Stevie Nicks but Orla who used to work at Universal Music, but actually a teacher of mine that I could not recognise - reached their demise in various, torturous ends, personally scripted to suit their fears. I saw these deaths first-hand. Stevie/Orla/Teacher/I was pushed into another, smaller courtyard, only to be confronted with hundreds of students, standing in a certain square-like grid, seemingly larger than her/her/her/me. Alarmed, glancing back to the gate we entered through she/she/she/I saw now only cement. She/she/she/I met our end, cowering, as students, all leering with quiet anticipation, one particularly frightening long-haired brunette, all picked up handfuls of the dark earth around them and started throwing it at her/her/her/my face until her/her/her/my eyesight and lung capacity was completely obscured by the black dirt.
But I was still running, the pounding beats corresponding to my equally pounding steps. But we were only to be confronted by them - although I still had not seen them - coming around the corner of the massive city intersection. We turned back, found a staircase that led to the roof. A glorious find that my brother had led us to but he was now missing and I had lost the acquaintance, not that I was trying hard to keep her, so I was left with the blank feminine figure. We rushed up the stairs, and a small child halfway-up grabbed and grasped my hand in both of his and murmured prophetic negativity from under his hoodie, staring at me but not at me at all with wavering, large eyes. I listened and then ran, bursting out onto the fresh, clear air of the darkening night. The roof was an outlined rectangle, overlooking the now emptied courtyard and I felt fear for the first time. The roof was broken in parts and damp in others and it was a far way to a/the door on the other side. The child had somehow contacted others and I could tell they were coming. We didn't think, just ran, as lightly as I could, as deftly as I could, across the pockmarked rooftop, anxiety and black torn holes in the fabric of the fiberglass stopping me often. Large men rose from the surrounding roofs, sinister. They did not rush but were languid in their movements, and more frightening because. One to the right of me was deep and dark and was telling me that I will not get out, I will not survive, 'you will not make it, don't be silly girl, you will not make it'. I side-stepped him and a black gash in the roof as he went for me and finally got to the door on the other side. No relief, but then I wasn't expecting it, this was just where I had to go. A man waited for me behind the door and immediately all I knew was that I had to take him. I had to get to White-Lies-frontman, but also I knew he would come for me if he had to and I did not want him to leave where he was, where he was safe. So I picked up a broken piece of wooden scaffolding, I bent into tennis receiving and I mentally aligned, smacking the splintering wood into my left palm, ready to kill this demon with my bare hands.
And then my effing alarm went off.
Never been so bummed.
Never.
