It’s March. You get up from your bed; the floorboards feel like ice on your bare feet. Mechanically, you put on socks, pants, a shirt - a coat, a hat, gloves, a scarf. Your eyes are used to the darkness - too used to it, in fact. When you step outside of your apartment, you suddenly find yourself blinded. You can’t see anything beyond the burning white of the sun on the snow. It hurts. The pain does not lessen as you stumble towards the bus stop.
It’s been five months. You do not remember what grass looks like, what birds sound like, what the sun feels like. You are numb.
The Parliment sits at the top of the hill, a majestic building overlooking the city walls. You know they work here, probably, but you have never seen a politician in person.
Every night, at 2 a.m., you are awoken by a terrible growl outside your window. The creature breathes heavily as it patrols the streets. Back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes, you can also hear a shrill cry - like a car alarm. You know the creature will leave a mountain of snow blocking every driveway; perhaps even a wrecked car in its wake. In the morning, it will be your duty - everyone’s duty - to clean up. This is your people’s penance.
Have you heard? people whisper around a cup of coffee. The heroes will return. Soon, they say. It will be soon. You wait. The heroes are still lost. The Leader will build a temple to them - paid by blood. Maybe then, the Nordique heroes will come back.
There are two kinds of people, divided by a terrible disagreement: la bus or le bus? Know who your allies are.
I’m from Montreal, your new neighbour say. Two weeks later, she is already gone.
When I was your age, we knew how to party, your uncle shakes his head sadly as you prepare to celebrate the Saint-Jean-Basptiste on the Plains. You nod gravely. You understand. But the police are everywhere, now. Always watching you. Slowly, the people’s will to live is drowned in the heavy summer rains.
During the day, it is a fun family amusement centre. But at night, you know that long-lost children’s laughter still resonates from the rusty rides of the Galeries de la Capitale…
You walk down the street. There is a quaint independant coffee shop on your right. You turn the corner. Two blocks later, you see another lovely independant coffee shop - it looks strangely familiar. You climb some stairs, turn left. The same coffee shop again. Your start to walk more quickly, panicking. There, in front of you - an orange sign. You’ve seen it before. It’s the coffee shop. It’s following you.
You utter a prayer whenever you have to cross over the bridge. You remember that it fell down once already. You watch the rust spots grow larger day by day - it’s only a matter of time before history repeats itself.
Your neighbour fell down the icy metallic steps of her three story apartment building yesterday. You decide to forget the stairs and throw yourself into the pile of snow instead - it’s probably safer.
Charming city, tourists say. Very European. Too bad about the weather.
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
gracieabrams
pixelskylines
jimmyeatworldofficial
2087
