Dream

The glass of water was too cold for the weather outside. The hand that held it was too old for the world. But whether the weather was cold, whether the man was old, the water was still to be dranken. It wasnât a figment of imaginative thought, or a blanket of security over restlessness, but a window in time to be entered. Or exited. The shivering old muscles over the phalanges quivered with intensity. Why is my water so cold. Did I not turn the faucet to the warm setting. But is cold water still the right temperature water to drink in cold weather? Or should I prepare myself a warm beverage, one that is more fitting for the current climatic circumstances? Then the shift occurred. It wasnât meant to be and was meant to be. The energy in the air, the snow, the breeze, the smog, the city lights, an old text books pages whipping frantically as a straight student continues to stress about the motives of their own indecency. It all stopped. Except for the old hand. It kept lifting the glass to tender lips, allowing for the cool liquid to slide down the gullet and into the stomach. Where has that foul rackett gone to? It had been here for so long I had never thought it to leave. Footsteps. The only footsteps left were from the large shoes on the old man as he moved out of his chair, set down his glass of water, and went through his apartment door into the hallway. Silence. It reminded him of the phone call. It⦠CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! He turned frantically. There had only been one other instance in which he had witnessed the two eyes that were staring at him now. Hollow in depth, lacking even the sheerest bit of empathy. Falling backwards onto the floor caused a stir of pain in his spine. The lights in the hallway flickered, no daylight was let in, there were no windows. And those eyes were the brightest objects in the hall. The man knew it was too late. The man knew it was the end. It hadnât even began. This is all he had been waiting for. Regaining strength, he pulled himself to his feet. It had been a long time since he had felt this. The eyes kept a firm hold upon his face, no blinking, no glancing. Making a low grunt he returned to his room and towards his counter top, leaving the door wide open. Grabbing his ice cold water, his grip was too intense. He felt the blood trickle down his arm, glass shattering in his hand. Had it been worth it? Was it really here? Was it time? Had it always been? Distress. He walked back out the door and let out a scream. It was high, consistent and sustained. The blood from his hand trailed him as he walked down the hallway, the eyes keeping their distance, but following his every step. Ascending three flights of stairs he passed no one, heard no one, saw no one. The eyes still following. He fell outside into the cold. The snow had been falling, but there was now a clearing in the sky, as the sun poked wearily through the white clouds. His body lay sideways in the snowbank. A child stood next to him. Stone cold stillness, silence. The phone call. He put his hand over his eyes, blocking the sun, and spilling blood onto his forehead. The eyes peered from out the door of the apartment complex. The child continued to stand still. A low hiss erupted from the manhole in the street. Gas streamed from it up into the atmosphere. The man looked from the eyes, to the manhole, and then to the child. âWell, Iâd take a hand if it werenât too much trouble to ya.â The child swiftly grabbed the old man and dragged him into the street. The eyes did not leave the doorway. Itâs not it. Itâs not it. Itâs not it. He felt his old body heat up as he was dragged into the manhole. Headfirst, with his legs kicking frantically at the edges of the hole as they soon followed him into the abyss. It had been a long time. The child looked down at his hand and saw the blood staining his palm. The eyes had a firm grasp on him now. The surrounding street buildings all began to crumble as the the sun disappeared and the air grew thicker into a fog. Small footsteps echoed as the child carried himself towards the apartment building. Slowly he entered, the eyes leading him. Then the building collapsed.