The Vision & The Chaos

The dream had left him breathless and terrified. There was no other way to describe it but as a prophecy, given to him by the only girl who had ever loved him, which he knew was impossible

It had seemed so real, he could still smell the blossom that had surrounded her in his dream. The sweet succinct aroma clung to the old jacket he had rolled up into a makeshift pillow. Most of the buttons had come off it now - a small mercy, as the rough stitching of the occasional patch rubbing against his cheek prevented him from sleeping as soundly as he wished.

He opened his eyes slightly. Sharp beams of sunlight crossed the heavy air of the shop; the floor strewn with detritus, only a handful of shelves remained upright. The atmosphere was thick with dust, revealed by shafts of light which pierced their way though the thin gaps between the boarding, hastily mounted the night before; a flimsy defense against the outside world.

He didn’t know what time it was. He didn’t much care. He knew he would have to get moving again soon, but the image of her, his vision, his Mercurial messenger incarnate, still persisted as an after image in front of him; burned in by the light of a thousand candles.

He looked up at the clock above the counter, its cracked face staring back at him forlornly. He couldn’t work out if it was working. The second hand seemed frozen, until after what seemed like an age, it obligingly moved and then continued its revolution, as if spurred into motion by the simple guilt of being observed. The clock read almost quarter past eight.

He lay still, concentrating hard on lowering his heart-rate. He could feel the adrenaline coursing its way around his body. He felt something in his hand, something rough and frayed. He pulled his hand, reluctantly heavy, up to his face, and held the cloth against a sunbeam. On the cloth, in rough capital letters, was written a single word.

“WATERLOO”.

He frowned, and winced as he pulled himself up to a seated position upon the floor. It was something she had told him in the vision. He closed his eyes. Dream, he tried to convince himself. It was a dream.

Opening his eyes, he looked again at the word. He didn’t remember writing it last night, but it was his handwriting. Looking to his right, he found a pen divested of its lid. He tried the pen on the cloth, which eventually started to write, the same ink that the word had been written in. Testing himself, beneath the first word, he again wrote “WATERLOO”. It was an exact match.

His heart-rate jumped as he suddenly remembered his bag. Where was his bag? He scrambled around himself for a few seconds, before eventually his hands fell upon it, lying beneath a pile of discarded magazines. His relief was only momentary, as once again his dream pervaded his thoughts. He panicked, staring around himself in a frenzied attempt to find some solace, some distraction. The golden razor light from the cracks in the windows resembled in tone and hue the burst which had emanated from behind her in his dream. Black bin-liners, lying discarded on the floor, billowed and rustled in the draught from beneath the shop entrance, rudely mimicking the movements of the obsidian satin nightdress she had been wearing.

He had almost become used to the panic attacks that now featured every morning. He hated them, but he had started to understand them, and he felt he was better equipped to deal with them now. But this one was different.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had dreamt; it was certainly before The Chaos, he certainly hadn’t dreamt since then. But again, he thought, this one was different.

He looked again at the clock, which seemed to still read quarter past. Had no time passed since the last time he looked? The second hand was still progressing, the clock hadn’t frozen. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, counting. After a while, he opened his eyes and fixed a stare upon the clock. Seventeen minutes past. His heart started to calm.

Breaking into the store last night, he hadn’t had much of a chance to take stock of his surroundings. He had boarded up the doors and windows in a hurry, using some of the shelving as makeshift planks. The shelves contents now lay strewn across the floor, creating a carpet of kitchen cleaner, tissue paper and other assorted homeware items. At the back of the shop, the till lay on its side upon the counter, empty.

Someone had already been here, but they had long gone, he hoped. Standing awkwardly, he stretched and was sharply reminded of the pain in his ribs. There was a large tear that reached through his shirt and his t-shirt, and his chest bore a large, bloody graze. The blood had clotted overnight, but some of the wound was still weeping. Behind the counter, he found some gauze and some vodka. The first swig of alcohol went down his throat easily, the second made him light-headed, and he stopped himself. The third went over his wound, and he winced. He strapped the gauze down with tape, and put the remainder of the vodka into his bag.

Most of the food had gone. A few boxes of biscuits remained, some crisps and a couple of chocolate bars, along with the ice-cream that had melted when the power had been cut off. The ice-cream tasted sour and sickly, and he didn’t feel like eating the biscuits until he could find some water to wash them down with. He packed up the food, and moved to the back of the store.

On one of the shelves by the back door, he found a pile of cheap maps of London. He picked one of them up, and turned it thoughtfully in his hands, flicking through the pages. There was movement out of the corner of his eye, and he froze. The beams of sunlight were being broken outside the store, as someone moved around to the barricaded front door.

Not now, he thought. The points of light danced around, and settled around the door to the shop, creating a dark silhouette. There were voices, three or four, one of them female. The voices were muffled, almost confused. An argument seemed to start, before the deepest voice spoke, and silenced the others.

Someone slammed against the door with a loud bang, the frame shuddering against the impact. The barricade held, but some of the boards creaked against the force, and a few of the nails loosened. He waited still, hoping that the intruders were looking for an easy target. One of them hurled themselves against the door again.

This time he didn’t hesitate. Without another glance at the room he bolted for the back door, and the stairs beside. He knew the back door was secure, so didn’t try it, and took the stairs two at a time, as he heard the deep voice become more urgent, more insistent. There was a third crash against the door, and the sound of splintering wood.

“Got it!” one of the voices shouted.

“Must be something in here!”

“Hit it again!”