Everything's the Same II

I could still be dreaming I think, shaking, my knees buckling. I can still go home. My family is at my home right now, my sister at my bed trying to wake me up.

“Wake up!,” I scream, titling my head to the sky, “Wake up!” I yell, walking up to the clothes store right next to me. I run at it, colliding against the glass, and bouncing back, I hope this will wake me up. (It doesn't.) It only makes me fall onto my butt, only makes me feel the cobblestones beneath me, only makes know how real is this town.

I get up, groggy. Slowly, I regain my equilibrium, run toward the sun high in the sky, where I know my family will be. Waiting for me to wake up.

******

My home is located on West Avenue, among rows and rows of identical squat grey houses. The only mark that sets it apart from the others is a statue of a man-bear in the front yard. My mom thought displaying the creature would be a good idea. (It wasn't.)

Except, when I get there, my house is a mansion made of glass. I can see every single item through transparent walls, couch, toilet, sink. But no people. There’s no one in there, just untouched food on the kitchen counter, a TV that is still left on, and steam rising from a pot on the stove.

My mind stops. I don't feel like me anymore. I feel like I’m watching myself open the glass front door, enter the house. I watch myself turn the stove off. I watch me sit on the the couch in front of the TV, grab the remote, lay back, and flip through channels. I watch me watch TV. I watch myself slowly break, this new world killing me.