I dreamt
I was in a foreign looking building, something like one back in the 90s, derelict with cardboard boxes strewn about and random people walking around. The air was stale, paint was peeling, a faded yellow...
I was with someone (whom I can't remember, but he drives), walking around, window shopping even though there was really nothing to look at.
Then I saw you.
You were alone, two floors down, sauntering around with that usual smug air blanketed securely around you. I can't remember what you were wearing exactly, but it wasn't anything striking. I felt a familiar strangeness, a discomfort, and I was afraid to call out your name. Then your eyes flickered around, and they met mine.
As usual, I averted my eyes and turned away, walking off with my companion. Yet unease continued creeping down my spine (I could almost feel your fingers reaching for my hips from behind); I broke into a small run.
And so did you.
To my horror, you leaped up the broken escalator with the grace of an antler, bounding over plank and cardboard boxes, closing in our distance at an anomaly rate. I remember memories strobing in as I ran, willing my legs not to turn jelly, my conscious mind hoping so hard that that Gatorade ad effect—you know, the one with soccer players running in water—won't happen like it always did in my dreams. I, while running harder, didn't feel it. But that dreaded Gatorade thing weighed me down as I, concurrently, from another camera angle, viewed my futile self searching desperately for an escape route. This self could see your whereabouts, yet was also part of my running body. Pretty much like an actor/director role welding into a halo effect, adding effort into my sprints.
I ducked past people, ran down small alleyways, trying to stay out of your sight. But you always closed in quickly. My companion got me to his car (it was an old, faded bronze family car), and we raced out across the multi-storey carpark. Relentless. Another set of tyres squealed. A white sedan blasted after us.
In and out of empty lots we wove, me constantly checking the rear view mirror even though my director self already knew where he was. We came a forking path and hurtled through the lane on the left. Another few metres, and we reached a dead end. I could hear your engine from not too far away, throb, Throb, THROB. My heart was almost in my mouth.
I threw myself out of the car and searched the dead alley, and found another passage just large enough for one person to pass through. My director mode disappeared and I was in first person—left cold. (Don't ask me how, but I was really in third AND first person mode at the same time.) I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. The passage finally came to an open lift, of which had 3 buttons inside. I forsook my companion and hit 1. The lift whirred to life, I slumped to the floor in a sitting foetal position, shaking, refusing to wish anything other than that the lift's mechanical sound would never stop whirring.
Ding.
The lift door opened... To you.
"Why did you run?"
"Why could you always find me?"
I didn't wait for a response. I woke myself up.
I was with someone (whom I can't remember, but he drives), walking around, window shopping even though there was really nothing to look at.
Then I saw you.
You were alone, two floors down, sauntering around with that usual smug air blanketed securely around you. I can't remember what you were wearing exactly, but it wasn't anything striking. I felt a familiar strangeness, a discomfort, and I was afraid to call out your name. Then your eyes flickered around, and they met mine.
As usual, I averted my eyes and turned away, walking off with my companion. Yet unease continued creeping down my spine (I could almost feel your fingers reaching for my hips from behind); I broke into a small run.
And so did you.
To my horror, you leaped up the broken escalator with the grace of an antler, bounding over plank and cardboard boxes, closing in our distance at an anomaly rate. I remember memories strobing in as I ran, willing my legs not to turn jelly, my conscious mind hoping so hard that that Gatorade ad effect—you know, the one with soccer players running in water—won't happen like it always did in my dreams. I, while running harder, didn't feel it. But that dreaded Gatorade thing weighed me down as I, concurrently, from another camera angle, viewed my futile self searching desperately for an escape route. This self could see your whereabouts, yet was also part of my running body. Pretty much like an actor/director role welding into a halo effect, adding effort into my sprints.
I ducked past people, ran down small alleyways, trying to stay out of your sight. But you always closed in quickly. My companion got me to his car (it was an old, faded bronze family car), and we raced out across the multi-storey carpark. Relentless. Another set of tyres squealed. A white sedan blasted after us.
In and out of empty lots we wove, me constantly checking the rear view mirror even though my director self already knew where he was. We came a forking path and hurtled through the lane on the left. Another few metres, and we reached a dead end. I could hear your engine from not too far away, throb, Throb, THROB. My heart was almost in my mouth.
I threw myself out of the car and searched the dead alley, and found another passage just large enough for one person to pass through. My director mode disappeared and I was in first person—left cold. (Don't ask me how, but I was really in third AND first person mode at the same time.) I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. The passage finally came to an open lift, of which had 3 buttons inside. I forsook my companion and hit 1. The lift whirred to life, I slumped to the floor in a sitting foetal position, shaking, refusing to wish anything other than that the lift's mechanical sound would never stop whirring.
Ding.
The lift door opened... To you.
"Why did you run?"
"Why could you always find me?"
I didn't wait for a response. I woke myself up.
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