I can’t remember when the dreams started, but I know their images very well. Electricity is cut for the entire city, so the nights are filled with a dense darkness. The streets remain frighteningly empty, with people staying inside when they are not seeking food. Food is scarce, and the city hasn’t received a new supply in too long. Everyone who did not act quickly enough to steal from stores is forced to barter to keep from starving.
By the time winter struck the city there had been an exodus, and nearly all those who stayed died of hunger, cold or violence. Only the fiercest of people could survive in the desert the city had become. I watch every night as people freeze to death or are stabbed as they return from scavenging the abandoned houses.
I wake up every morning at dawn, scared out of my fucking head, safe in my soft bed, warm within walls, and serenaded by the hum of my computer. The dream feels too real and I can’t get it out of my mind no matter what I do. I’m beginning to think I’m insane.
At work I’ve been increasingly distracted. Today my cash was short by twice as much as it ever was before, and I couldn’t answer any of the customers’ questions about books they were looking for. I kept picturing the empty streets of my dreams, imagining how these people would cope with the end. I cried and ran into the back room when a young boy and his mother came into the store. In my dream they hadn’t made it. Cold had claimed them.
Walking home at dusk scares me most. I remember the darkness of my dreams. It was a real darkness that covered everything. Even the stars and moon were swallowed by it. Somehow, that frightened me more than the black, black windows.
Here I am on a park bench, writing down what street preachers must have stuck in their heads. I have to get this out, though, even if I am crazy. I don’t know what this is, but if any of it is real, I have to leave a warning. Who the hell’s gonna believe? If someone does, what can that person do? What can anyone do?
What can I do? For now, I’ll leave this book under the bench. Maybe someone will discover it and see something I don’t. Yes, even if it’s whatever mental instability I’ve acquired.
A shattered sunset soul,