ErraticHopper

I'm climbing a staircase - I quickly realise that I'm in my primary school. The steps are smooth, angular concrete, and so are the walls - I remember that in reality, they were brick walls painted white. There is no artwork on the walls as I climb; the stairwell is cold and empty and my footsteps echo off the walls. It rises up a great shaft through the square school building.

I step onto a landing and turn to a set of grey double doors with small windows, to the nursery. They have no frame and are flush with the wall. I push open the doors and enter the nursery. Straight inside the door is a narrow hallway, the staff bend over tables on both sides of the wall. The space feels narrow, crowded and chaotic. I make my way through them and the hall opens into a much wider, clearer room, lit up brilliantly from all over. Half-height bookshelves double as partitions between different areas of the room, coloured beanbags are scattered about and children mill throughout the room. I'm not sure if I'm one of the children or not.

At the back of the room is a wall of narrow cubbyholes. I search for mine; I know whereabouts it is, but someone has let their coat hang out of their cubby so that it covers mine. I fumble around for a bit before finding my cubbyhole, only to discover someone else's stuff inside. I pull it out: it's a black drawstring bag, almost empty so that the fabric sags when I pick it up. I'm wondering what to do with this when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn around. The girl standing behind me is someone who went to my school, but left before Sixth Form. We used to chat from time to time. "Sorry," she says, "that's mine - I'll take it. I just left it there for a moment." I hand her the bag and notice that her hair is darker and shorter than I remember it. "Did you get a haircut?" I ask. When she fully turns to face me I'm stunned to see that there's nothing left of her hair but sparse, thin and wispy curled strands; I can see clearly her near-bald scalp. I know she sees the shock in my eyes as she looks away with a regretful smile. She tells me that she was diagnosed with lymphoma ("lymphomatic") recently and is being treated. I don't know what to say. A crowd throngs around us of girls trying to collect their belongings.

I leave the nursery. As the doors fall closed behind me, something compels me to open them and look inside once more. Every teacher in the hallway snaps their head towards me, terror in their eyes. Each wears a plain dress, a crisp white apron and a cloth bonnet, and they bend over to tend to babies wriggling and squirming on the tables. Left speechless by their reaction, I slowly close the doors again and leave.

Then I am on the train, going home. It's cramped and I am squished against the wall of the carriage, arms clutched to my chest. The light down here is cold and dim, occasionally flickering. The train rattles as it rushes through the tunnel. I feel tired of the monotony, my eyelids flutter.

Soon I am walking down the high street away from my station. I compulsively check my belongings; touch my backpack strap, check. Feel my coat over my arm, check. Then I feel around under the coat and on my shoulder, but I can't find the tote bag that I always carry. At the realisation adrenaline bolts through my body and I almost feel sick. Where is it? At school? Then I have to go back. My wallet, phone and keys are in there, not to mention library books. What a pain... I'm already dreading the thought of getting back on that train.

As I'm figuring out what to do I clench my left hand and feel the resistance of something hard. It's my phone. That should be in my other bag, and it's here - but the bag isn't. All these different trains of thought and lines of reason swirl into a whirlwind of confusion. I stand stock-still in the middle of the pavement, mind racing as I begin to feel worse and worse.

Ugh I am not having a great time on the site recently... Every time I visit I get to spend much more than a few seconds 'verifying you are human' which then repeats itself after a few minutes and in the process logs me out and deletes the DJ I am editing. Drives me mad!

Long dream this time!

For a moment I see myself: a tall man, dressed in black and with black hair. I'm not myself in this dream, I am him, seeing everything through his eyes. I don't feel like a girl anymore.

A street at night. It's wide enough, paved evenly, though the slabs vary in colour and shade. The streetlamps give off a low, cool white light that's like moonlight. The sky above is dark blue without a single star.

In the middle of the two-lane road is an industrial-looking island, a tangle of thick pipes and ducts that come out of the ground and go back in again, twisting over one another. It's confined into a strict rectangular patch of ground. In the light the curves of the metal are glinting dully. I walk with quiet but sure footsteps onward, past railings and railings and railings, black and gleaming along the length of the street and around the corner. As I near it, eerie music starts playing from one of the corner houses. The house is purplish-grey and has three stories and a basement. On the first floor only the house's corners are missing and covered with a thick dark grey mesh. From here a bright purple mist is wafting out from inside. A purple van in front of the house reads in bubble letters above the windscreen: 'Ultra Shelibatology'.

I pass the house and walk through many more residential streets, across main roads; everything is dark and cool and quiet. Until when passing a garden square I catch sight of a man inside, watching me. He has light hair sticking up in tufts and his whole face is obscured in the dark except his staring eyes. Our eyes meet. Another person walks by in front of me.

I'm in a large butcher's shop with an old-fashioned feel. It's really big, laid out like a supermarket, full of meat - and not cold. I remember that, from the street, the windows looked dusty and the shop dark. The interior is black and dark green, and it feels like I could get lost in here.

The owner of the shop approaches me. A bald, genial old man. He talks to me, saying how happy he is to have a customer, and sells me some meat. He jokes that I should come back if the place's still in business - as it will likely close down soon. I protest against this idea, but he tells me that it can't be helped - he rarely has customers. Then he indicates a tall shelving unit full of packets of pink meat and admits he doesn't even know what is in them.

As I'm about to leave, he insists on giving me several items of antique/vintage furniture in the shop.

Later, I return home with purchases. This doesn't look like my road, the pavement is raised a few feet above the road with a railing running alongside. The houses are wider and without the usual stucco on the ground floor. I am laden with old furniture as well as shopping bags and some pink chinaware. I see my parents near a parked car. This looks like a normal car from the outside, but inside it's big: four seats in a row.

My parents have shopping bags too, for a picnic: several buns for each of us, olives, focaccia, vegetables and some other stuff. We talk to the other family inside the car. There is a police car with doors open in the middle of the road and the whole street is quiet - something's off.

Close by is a very small car. A pair of legs stick out from under it at an odd angle, crushed by the car body. "Terrible, isn't it?" I hear someone say. I approach and peer through the windows. The passenger is crumpled over their seat and driver cannot be seen in the dark interior. I knock on the window and the passenger stirs - a young boy in a puffer jacket, looking annoyed with me. Then the driver looks up as well and moves his legs. I see the car has eyes and is red plastic. Just two boys in a toy car. I've woken them up and I hurry away.