8. our own world

Walking in trees. Branches, roots, leaves, and rain.

Walking and walking and moving (there is nothing else to do) because the ground is wet.

Smelling of earth and water don'trememberthesmell and in the country. Can't remember how or why but there was screaming and dying and.

Stop.

Cough a little. Radiation and slow death will win eventually, but right now there are bushes and paths and forest. Green everywhere and yellow light blinding. Everything feels and looks and smells like a movie.

Thunkthunkthunk.

Not so slow of a death. Behind, around, about.

Alone and scared.

Remembering mother and sister and father and brother Gods Picon must be okay and memories of holidays and love. Remembering with and not this.

Voices in the night. Damp all around with wood and sticks and leaves sticking your neck and back. Voices of others. Looking and searching. Not for you because you are alone. Madness?

And she is standing there, perfect and tall. White - color of mourning - and light and beautiful.

"Who are you?" Your voice feels wrong. So long quiet. Unreal.

She smiles, bright and perfect. "Who are you?"

You were never good with girls. You know this is a dream or a hallucination as she is smiling at you, her hands suddenly tracing the edges of your face.

"Billy?" You ask. You don't know. Hot and cold and hunger and thirst and the greens of the trees are beautiful behind her bright hair.

Lips warm on your own. Not a dream. Hallucination? Undecided. She smells of apples and autumn mornings long gone.

Blink and stare again. Not real? Real?

"Are you alive Billy?" And then you see the danger.

Not such a slow death.