Wall of Flame

I dream, most nights now, of the end of the world.

It’s fire, usually. Massive burns that make the blazes that ravage the overpriced suburbs of California’s foothills look like the subtly hissing blue flames of a McMansion’s fancy gas fireplace.

Sometimes, if my mind’s feeling edgy, it’ll mix it up. Volcanoes used to be more common, but earthquakes have, as of late, taken their place as the most prevalent alternative to fire. One time, I dreamt about a flaming hurricane. I woke up in a cold sweat that night.

It’s become hard to work. Even though I sleep through the dream most nights, they leave me feeling exhausted. Drained. I drag myself into the office, but I can’t seem to focus, and whenever I close my eyes, I see the wall of flames bearing up towards me, as I stand and look from a forest hilltop.

I look up to see my boss snapping his fingers at me. For a moment, I see him consumed by flames as he wanders aimlessly from his overheated car. Then I’m back in the office. He informs me that there’s some report that needs to be filed by the end of the week. I assure him it will be done. His shoes make a click clicking noise on the floor as he strides away from me. I breathe. Thankful that he’s gone.

I never die, you see. In the dreams, I’m always left, among a few others. We try to rebuild. When the dreams first started, our attempts almost immediately collapsed into infighting. Now we seem to last longer. We have a chance to scrounge what we can from the ashes. Eventually, though cracks come to the surface, somebody makes an accusation, fists fly, and I wake up.

My daytime pattern feels so strange now. I wake up, still hearing the screams. Still seeing the bones of buildings, hollowed out. I get ready. I go to work doing nothing much important. My boss snaps to get my attention again and yells at me. Apparently, the report wasn’t good enough. I sigh, wishing I could quit.

I dream again. This time a pandemic. Almost all of the survivors are women. Time passes. It feels like months. We rebuild. Make a homestead. Establish a community. One of the few ‘men’ in our crew confides that she’s actually a woman. She’d like to be called Rivka. I agree to make a run to a not-yet-looted pharmacy to get hormones for her. Upon my return, there’s a fight. Somebody starts talking about making sure we have enough ‘genetic material to restart society,’ says the weird desires of one person shouldn’t outweigh the need to repopulate. She gets some others on her side, and they start yelling at Rivka. The poor girl is near tears. I grab her hand and we run into the forest. We run and run and don’t look back. Eventually we stop to rest. Rivka’s gasping. Sobbing. I reach over to comfort her, but before I can make contact, I wake up. My pillow is wet.

The news is so hard to watch. The world’s a mess. The president’s a monster. Fascism’s on the rise and so is climate change. There’s nothing I can do. What’s the fucking point?

I’m going to bed earlier and waking up later. I don’t know why. I don’t want to watch the world perish in fire every night. But I’m so tired. All the time. It gets dark and my eyes grow heavy. I should probably go to therapy, or a doctor, or something, but I can’t fucking afford that. So I don’t. And I sleep longer. And I’m coming in later to work. Maybe I’m worried they’ll fire me, but honestly who fucking cares.

There are still fights, but I’m learning to deal with them. Mediate, usually. Another woman, another time, brings up the issue of reproduction. No mediation there. I tell her to go fuck herself. Even in the end of the world, we aren’t genetic mules. We’re our own goddamn people, and we deserve to be fucking happy.

My boss fires me. Not for being late. Not for daydreaming on the job. For swearing in front of a goddamn state senator who he wanted a contract with. They can all eat shit. I need another job, if only to make rent. I start asking around at restaurants.

I’m noticing the screams less. I know that probably makes me a monster, but all I can think of is the work I have to do after the flames die down.

I work odd jobs. Not enough to make my rent. I’m couch surfing. Sleeping as often as I can. Trying to not look at the news on the TV. Fucking hellboxes.

I’m teaching a little girl to forage for mushrooms when I hear the voice of a familiar reporter. I open my eyes to the TV news.

An actual fucking pandemic has hit, they say. Stay inside. Keep your distance.

I can’t couch surf anymore. I’m sleeping in my car.

Another child. A little boy. I’m showing him how to work the well pump. Water comes out. It’s thick and it smells wrong. I fill the bottle anyway, then my car. I’m explaining to him how water sustains life. Grows new things. I show him how to make a trickle filter with a cloth. We’re standing on the edge of the woods, which are starting to grow back. Green shoots rise from the blackened earth.

The air is so dry. The sun is setting, and shadows loom above me.

I take my lighter out, planning to light my torch. I don’t know why I hold it to the bottle instead. The cloth catches alight. The little boy is standing and looking at me. Or maybe he’s just a shadow. I smile at him. “For a new world” I say. Then I wind up.

And throw.