I am not legend

[Sometimes our dreams tell us more than we wish to admit. They tell us the things we know, and the things we hide from. The very things we push, and bury at the back of our subconscious. This is a very old dream post from 2008, that I have slightly edited, and turned into a small piece of fiction.]

I made my way to back where Beth was living – to the last place I knew her to be - long before the world went mad. I walked and ran through empty towns, and cities – now home only to memories and the dead. Through the once busy, Sunday morning car washing - lawn mowing suburbs, and out into the green countryside. I walked past the empty hub of commerce - the factories with no workers, the ransacked supermarkets with no customers. I walked along, and followed a railway track just because it reminded me of a film I once saw - and because I hoped for the sound of a train, rather than my footsteps echoing on a rusting steel rail. 

Standing at the crossroads, I looked over to the house - where I too once lived - and it looked back at me accusingly; its darkened blank windows like the eyes of the abandoned. Crossing the road towards the house – old habits dying hard, I unconsciously checked for traffic - even though there was none, and would be none again. Making my way round to the back of the house, I lifted the rusty latch atop the gate, and let myself into the garden. Once a neat and tidy retreat, the garden had grown wild without humans around to cutback, and trim the greenery. Ivy and weeds attempted a takeover of the flower beds whilst a purple Buddleia had gone mad, climbing so high that its own weight threatened to pull it back down to the earth from where it came. Using a drainpipe, I hauled myself up through an open window at the back of the house. It was late in the day, and the hot sun was just setting, bringing a welcome coolness. I made my way past bedrooms strewn with the detritus of a hasty departure, and waited for a moment, peering down the stairs. The hallway of Beth’s house was filled with yellow sunlight, which cut like a laser through the dusty atmosphere. As I crept down the stairs past familiar monochrome faces hung in frames on the wall, I noticed a white envelope - addressed to me in Beth’s hand-writing - laying on the worn wooden floor near the front door. Next to the envelope, was a necklace made of black and white sea shells - placed carefully into the shape of a heart. Crouching down – my knee joints creaking – I reached out... 

[I never opened the letter, because I woke up. Maybe our minds and dreams protect us from the truth, as well as guiding us towards it.]