Passing through the back alley I came to an opening. A line of garages led the way through to a dead end of houses. I could hear the sounds of the quiet night: the rustling of newspapers, howling of the wind, and the low-pitched humming of something. I couldn't locate the source of that one. It all seemed active, but of course, no one was there. The houses were covered in darkness. Just blank. The moonlight lit the path, putting the dim outlines of the dead streetlights to shame. Bushes, benches, fences, it was all there. Just the way I remembered it.
I've been here before.
I was walking down a long road. Streetlights were far into the distance; too far too rid of the biting claustrophobia of the darkness. It was too dark to see further than a few metres, but I could definitely feel the prickle of a rosebush to the right, at arms length. Brushing my fingertips across it, I crossed to a narrow path to the right of the road. Looking ahead, I could tell it was the late evening. The sun must have set only a few hours before, with hopes of its rise nowhere in sight. I couldn't tell the season, but I didn't care. My mind was hazy, full of thoughts, worries, expectations, fears: the exercise machines of the mind. They never run out. They don't even pause. I was sure of one thing though. Everything felt cold. I remember that. My instinct would be to say it was late winter then, perhaps early spring. The evidence was felt on the frozen ground that felt my tired footsteps.
To the left, there were layers of trees overlapping each other, all moving together. The foreground, the background, everything in between. In the middle stood a chain link fence, behind that the white, spinning glare of faraway fog lights. I'm not sure what was behind there. I'd lived near to this place all my life and I'd never even bothered to question it, let alone look. I've been here before, just not there.
The air seemed thin and discomforting. Constant pockets of smoke escaped my breath. I was losing warmth.
It was so dark.
There didn't seem to be any difference between the ground and the grass. The road was invisible. Only a step and a slight imbalance in the ground level signalled going to and from the path and road. There were tall, towering trees lining the road. A turning leading in to an estate availed itself, as the fog faded.
I took a chance and went in. Walking past the houses, one by one, the porch lights awoke. With the one in front lighting up as the one behind dimmed, my route was a path of light. There was finally some visibility ahead, my strained eyes relieved. I walked on to a path in between two patches of grass. Past a bollard, there was a narrow turning. Almost like a rural alleyway, wooden fences either side.
Making my way around the slight bend I came to a small park on a field broken by the same path I walked across to find my way there. Ahead, across a small bridge that crossed a brook there was a silhouette of a man standing. It could have been a woman; I was only assuming it as a man. I'm not sure why. I could vaguely see his outline, but nothing else of him. His arms were raised. Further on was a dog, running back and forth from each end of the path, scraping the ground. I walked down the path, across the bridge and approached the man. Without a word he stepped out of the way to the left, not turning. He must have heard my footsteps. The lead of his whistle dangled as he moved. Silent. I walked past him and the path, near to where the dog had stopped to sit on the grass. I looked at its eyes. The man, still at the bridge, blew his whistle.
And I was awake.
