I dreamt it was the end of the world.
It was dusk. My apartment was in disarray and I don’t know why. Everything was on the floor. My friend and I were standing in the living room when it started.
We could see people screaming in the high-rise across the street. They were being attacked, over and over. There was a silent, collective diphthong of a scream and then they were gone. I ignored them and looked away.
We looked at each other. Our words were brief, emotionless, cauterized.
“Do you want to pack anything?”
“There’s no time to go back to my place,” he said.
I looked down and saw that I was wearing ugly, rust-colored red.
Carefully, I picked through various articles of clothing and stuffed them in a gym bag. I chose clothes that were comfortable, warm, and appropriate for running. The bulk of the dream was spent picking through my jeans and socks and tops. I thought that I should start to panic because the packing was taking so long but decided against it. For no apparent reason, I included a black-and-white print dress. The gym bag bulged. I thought to myself, calmly, don’t bring more than a week’s worth. We’ll be dead before then.
Instinctively, I knew we would be safe for only thirty minutes. I put on a running shoe but I couldn’t find the other. I ran around the apartment with one shoeless foot.