The Day Before. (Undergoing Re-Writing as 01/11/22) (Sequences 1-4 finished)

Sequence Six.

Sequence Six.

The City.

The city that I dream is dark at day. There, children run, but not at play. The ground is cracked and darkish-grey. Eyes hide in the dark, beasts at prey. A mind full of darkness, nothing to say.

Not a thing to keep and not a thing or reap. Like the end of life it all starts to creep, yet the  it closes in and then the ground it sinks. A mound full of grave, filled to the tip. Children's names. Spirits of shame.

Wolf howls encompass my every sound. I walk toward this city as they start to sound nearer. I come upon a small wooden bridge and a stream, blocking my only way into this city I dream. This stream, I did not dream. The stream is appealingly made of my memories—they teem.

I take my first step. I must not fall into my memories, they resent. My memories of which I cannot repent. I remember... no wait, I forget. Again. Heightening and frightening, I start to cross the bridge. Toe-by-toe, barely clothed nor barely moving at all—hoping that I do not fall.

Heartbeat a flight, taken aghast—the world turning fast. I hold on dear with all of my might. Thunderous claps of lightening they strike. In such a wicked, sickening plight, the bright light expands with an infinite spite. As metal begins to enclose my every sight, below the bridge I am on, a massive sea of my memories now resides.

STOP. THE SCREAMS ARE SO LOUD. I tell myself as their loudness pounds. I cannot move. I cannot contain. Everything's just tormenting my brain. Please help me, I am going insane. I think. The bridge it continues to sway. The howling windless, ceaseless fray. The memories below cannot wait to take me.

I slowly continue to creep and I manage to cross all of the way, what felt like miles and miles before I touch dirt. Behind me, not in front of me—lies just the small, wooden bridge, and a dry field of grass below—nothing else. In front of me now, not behind me, awaits the city I dream.

It is black and grey, just as it seems. I run and I run as the sun starts to set. The streets are quiet, pretty at rest. Clouds of steam lie all around. I come up to this massive black building.

A giant conglomeration, a steel tower, so tall it seems that it reaches into the sky for miles. I walk through a door and pass through a turnstile. Voices rattle, the stone floor I stand on shatters and I fall through it, landing on a marble floor.

A crowd of people all of the sudden, awake and around, shuffling and wandering—oh what a crowd. I run through, I see, I hear the sounds. I am terrified. I run back. Back through the door and the turnstile, and then I turn around. They disappear behind me... never having existed at all I guess.

Dejavu to me? Back again to bleed? Dejavu indeed. A steed of mounted greens, mountain trees and wounds treated with heeded words, needed please.

Empty and bare, yet pretty tranquil—eerily still. A single road with a purpose unknown. Puddles of silver, puddles of gold. Here grey clouds float and a stream along the road flows into a drain where broken bones lay in decay.

The voices they once told now only echo below. The water that strains into them, staining pain. The water now only washes away the dust and decay, an effortless wait.

The building that was there—the tall black one—now just metal wires, a burned out hole. Ashes begin to fall from the sky. The moon appears here, it is on fire. Now, the sun and the moon exist as one in this city that I dream.

The rain turns to razor blades. They cut me, cut me bad. They get lodged in me and the shards cut me deep. Now, somehow, all of the sudden I hang by only my hand from a giant steel tress, a towering mess. I fall.

This is the end. As soon as I start to fall I hit the ground and land, though. I feel it and pound it hard with my fists. The razor blades release and exit from my skin. The ground cracks open and from it opens a rift.

The ground quakes and throws me into a void. Again I fall and into darkness and I drift. Now, this is the end. No, I hit ground again. I am okay. Somehow I live. I laugh.

I close my eyes, expecting to wake up again from this dejavu journey into the abyss. Upon the face of a hilly heap in this rift, a petty priest sits, observing some sheep.

He holds a cane like a wooden shame. His face is wrinkly, his hands are held high. His black dress blows over the dry barren grounds. He calls a name that's echo refrains from escaping the plains. "WAIT!" I scream. He looks up and stares at me from afar. I am then dragged into more darkness and nothingness as blackness surrounds.

I am pulled under water now. I sink—I sink. I'm drowning. I try to swim up, but something has caught me by my pant-leg. Then; all of the sudden, I remember I am wearing no such pants, and I swim up and come back up to the surface. I pull myself up. I stand over a puddle. My memories...

The puddle turns dark and black and the color of blood. My memories call up to me now from below. I try to turn and run away, but my knees break and my legs buckle. I crawl with my arms and drag myself as fast as I can. The water starts to flood from the puddle and surround everything I see. I give up and I faint.